Fortunes of the Riddermark
by In Amber Clad
Summary: Orcs run freely across the lands of Rohan. Unchallenged. Unchecked. Killing at will. Only Eomer and Theodred see that Rohan is ready to fall, and that the King they love is withering fast from unnatural old age. The magic of Entspring threads a woman into the fabric of Rohan's fate. At least now Eomer's sister is no longer alone when he is forced away. Eomer/OC
1. Fortunes and Fire

**Author's Note: **

**Although I'm rather new to , I'm not new to writing stories. I've written LOTR fictions before too, but none ever got passed Rivendell. I swear, that location is the bane of all my ideas. This is the first fan fiction I've come up with that actually works enough to try uploading. I have about 60% of the story complete in my head, I just need to work out the kinks and write it down. **

**Concerning the story: The story takes place during all three books, but almost entirely takes place in Rohan, as the title suggests. The main characters are Eomer, Eowyn, Grima, possibly Gandalf, and my OC. The story will not be told from the OC's point of view, rather, she will only appear in scenes where the other main characters are present. I think this will make the storytelling a bit more interesting. Also, I've decided to go with a mixture of the books and the movies. I'll make a note every time this happens for those who've only seen the movies.**

**I'm going to try to only write after reading a chapter of JRR Tolkien's works, so I can have the feel of how he writes come out in my own. . At least, that's what I'm going for. Wish me luck.**

**Have fun reading.**

**- In Amber Clad**

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**Chapter 1: Of Fortunes and Fire**

Early Spring, 3018 of the Third Age.

"Guthwine! How many?" the horseman called, though not from a horse's back. The horseman stood upon ground wet by black blood and powdered by ash. His horse was nowhere in sight, so he stood on the top of the embankment of the Entwash hoping to see what his ears could not tell. The sound of the village burning and the people fleeing from the savagery made it all the harder to hear Guthwine's course reply.

"Fourty, no fifty more! The blackened night air and chaos, I cannot tell difference between our own and the orcs!" Guthwine cried, coughing from the smoke.

"Then learn the difference! We must hasten our hunt n'er none be left alive!" said the horseman. He quickly scanned the sullied streets strewn with bodies marred by their quarry. "Where is the Marshal?"

"He's given chase with a small company to slay the orcs that follow the refugees. He's ordered us to protect those who remain, and save what provisions we can." Guthwine shifted the weight of his spear in his heavy hand, "Éothain, take my horse and spear until the Marshal returns." He dismounted quickly and gave the reins to Éothain, who took them without hesitation. Éothain was the better rider and better warrior on horseback, for he was older and more experienced. Guthwine however was an excellent swordsman, and could provide more support from a shorter distance.

After Éothain took leave of Guthwine's spear, for his own had already found the chest of an orc, he asked, "And what of you, Guthwine?"

Guthwine grinned in reply, "Of me? I will find your horse." To that, he sprung from the ground like a bird and followed the river, unsheathing his sword as he went. Entwash ran through the middle of the village, where a pool of water collected, now blacked with the blood of Men and Orc. Éothain checked his horse 'round and ran his spear into the first orc he found upon reentering the village. The grey shadows of night flickered orange in the firelight of burning homes. Éothain took to charging his horse to and from the unspoiled homes to the water's edge. He came out like a blur to the blinded orcs that were unwise enough to look into the light when they heard the horse's hooves. He lost himself in sound of thundering hooves and the cries of battle.

All around him his fellow Éored fought until every last vile creature had been destroyed by blade, spear, fire, or horse's hooves. It was not far into the night yet, not even midnight. However, it was still winter, so the nights were long and cold. The heat of the fires flicked at what little skin shown on the armored men. Their shining mail and hard leather plating had protected them. Some of the men came to Éothain and reported no losses of their own men, of whom had remained to protect the village at least. Though, the numbers of the civilian casualties was far greater than they feared.

Éothane cursed Mordor openly. "Everywhere the smell of death and smoke. Mordor will pay for this." As was tradition of the Éored, they began to assemble the bodies of the orcs to be piled and burned. To this, a change was made. Homes were already lost to fire and were then used to burn the bodies. He thought of the Marshal's decision to protect the majority who fled as he stared into the blaze, _It is better that he did, for homes can be rebuilt, but lives are lost forever_. He turned to the nearest horseman and said, "Send word to the Third Mashal that is it safe for the villagers to return." The horseman nodded and left swiftly.

* * *

Some hours passed and the fires finally began to die, whether from loss of fuel or put out by water and earth. Half of the men had quickly gathered the strewn supplies that were in danger of being burned, the others tended to the wounded. Graves were being dug for the lost souls, but progress was slow, for the earth was hardened by ice. Seeing that it was useless for the men to tire at a futile act, he told the men to instead gather stones. The stones would be built with soil over the dead to protect them until spring. When the earth was soft again, the bodies would be moved to their final resting places.

Éothane's temperament began to fall, now with the excitement of the battle waning. He did his best to keep occupied and others occupied, for there was much to be done and saved. But his nerves wracked him. The Third Mashal should have returned by now. Had something gone wrong? The thought spurred him and he grabbed hold of another horseman, "Rider! Go after the Mashal. He has not returned and may be in trouble. Gather forty men and give chase."

At that, a horn sounded clear in the night. They turned to the north and saw men and horses rising over the hill. Their torches were lit and shown brighter than the stars behind them. All in the village gave a cry of welcome and victory. There was a scene of families being reunited then, happy reunions of living, and sorrowful ones with the dead. Éothain urged his horse forward when he saw the white horsetail that fell from the top of the Mashal's helmet.

"Éomer!" He called, "My lord, what happened? Why is your arrival so late?" His horse met up with the Éomer's along with the horsemen he had sent the message with, and the three walked side by side as the Mashal recounted the events.

Éomer spoke, "We were attacked by a band of orcs awaiting us near the river bridge. They hid amongst the boulders until we passed, and then took us from behind. We lost three more, including a woman who was with child." His voice trailed off as a man walked by, hands still stained with his wife's blood. A pang of guilt took hold of him until the despairing man was out of earshot. The messenger horsemen also bowed his head.

Éothane was horrified, "And the baby…?" He almost didn't want to know. Before he answered, Éomer shook his head gravely.

"We tore the baby from the womb, but it would not cry. …It was too soon." The three men were in silence atop their horses.

At a length, Éothan recounted the events of the village during the time they were absent. When he finished, Éomer nodded and then turned his attentions to his men. He gave orders and they followed them, for that was their love for their leader. Éomer was a man of action, as his decisions shown earlier by going himself to protect those who fled. However, he was also a man of great discernment. He told the men what duties to perform in which order; who to tend to first, that food should be made available, and the weary be given makeshift beds. Although Éothain had done well, things seemed to run faster and smoother with their leader returned to them.

The night continued this way until dawn. Only when it seemed that the villagers felt some ease did Éomer decide to rest. The company remained in the village for several days. The help of a full Éored (well, almost full. Guthwine was missing, so their band of one hundred and nineteen men at the moment instead of one hundred and twenty), gave the village a head start on recovery. A whole new house was built using the wood that could be saved from the burned ones, albeit quite bare since it was a rush job to provide shelter. Éomer sat on the roof, thatching it. He only wore his mail shirt over his clothes, and left the armor below beside his horse. He couldn't climb properly with it on, despite being used to it.

There was a munching sound coming from near his foot. "Firefoot!" Éomer scolded. "Stop that!" His horse lowered its neck with a mouthful of hay that had just been a part of the roofing. Éomer sighed, "You're going to make me do it all over again, aren't you?" The horse looked at him with his big brown eyes. Éomer could have sworn there was a smirk in them. "Spoiled horse. Here," he dropped a bushel on top of the horse's head. It made a disgruntled noise, but began munching on the bushel anyway. "I will hear no complaints from you. You asked for it."

The horse's ears pricked upward and it lifted its head, looking east toward the edge of the village. Éomer followed its gaze and his eyes fell upon a rider. Éomer quickly surmised that it was Guthwine, returned from whatever errand he had been on, for Éothain had told him not to worry. However, the rider's pace told another story. Éomer jumped from the roof and called over some of the men. They waited in the plaza.

Guthwine entered the village in a hurry. The horse he rode was none other than Simbold,Éothain's lost horse. With him, he bore a young man. Without verbal command, he stopped the horse only a yard away from the men. Guthwine said quickly, "Éomer, my lord! Sorcery! There is sorcery at work near Fanghorn. The pure waters of Ent Spring is alight with unnatural flames!"

"Sorcery you say?" Éomer mused. "Come off your horse, man, so I may hear you clearly."

"But it is true!" the boy squeeked, his voice cracking from puberty. The boy slipped off the horse and almost skinned his knee.

"So you are the one who stole my horse," Éothain said gruffly, walking up to the group. He took Simbold's reins and petted his nose. The boy shrunk.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I thought I would die if I did not. But I only wished to join my mother who was with the others running away," he pleaded, "But the horse would not heed me. He ran and ran away from the fires into the night." Éothain went to slap the boy, for it seemed that the boy was accusing a war horse to be a coward, but the Mashal stopped him with a raised hand.

"Let him speak. Continue your tale, boy. Where did the horse take you?" Éomer was, again, was a man of great discernment. There was no lie in the boy's eyes.

The boy gulped, the memory renewed, "To the Ent Spring. I knew it was the Ent Spring. My father and I oft went there to collect the healing mosses." His eyes fell downward, "But this time was different. The horse stopped and we both stared into the pool. The longer we stared, we began to see images, faces on the water." The men grew silent as the boy went on. "I awoke then," he paused, "Only when Master Guthwine found me as the sun rose in the east."

"The Orcs came from the West. Do you think the Ent Spring was where they were headed?" Éothain guessed aloud.

Guthwine said, "If so, then surely to poison its clear waters."

A light opened in the boy's eyes, "My lord! Many tales of good fortune surround the spring. We cannot let them destroy it!"

"The boy is sure of this. He insisted on returning to the pool, convinced not to miss what good fortune that was to come from its depths," Guthwine said, dismounting. "That is why I am late. When we were to return a day ago, he leapt from the saddle and ran back. Three times he did this whenever I caught him, until I agreed to see the pool for myself in the moonlight. We returned there, and I saw that his story was true. And now here we are, though the boy still did not want to come."

"I have also heard tales concerning the fortunes of that spring, but not all of them are good," Éomer said. "It is said that those who drink of it go mad."

The boy's chest filled with air, he seemed to be ruffling his feathers like an agitated magpie. "Only bad Men go mad! And I am not mad, nor did I drink from it!"

Éomer nodded. "What is your name young master?" The boy paused at the sudden question. Éomer's eyebrows lifted, "You claimed not to drink, so does thirst stop your tongue? Speak now." The men chuckled at the tease and the boy shrunk again, but this time embarrassed.

"Éarthang, son of Thengel, my lord," he finally said.

"Your father bears a kingly name, Éarthang."

"Yes, my lord."

Éomer turned to Éothain, "Gather a host of forty men. We ride for Ent Spring. The rest will remain here and continue the repair." The boy's head lifted with amazement.

"My lord!" grunted Éothain, "Surely you..." He stopped before he questioned his commander, but his commander ignored him and his eyes remained fixed on the boy's face. He then turned to Guthwine, "How can you encourage the boy?"

Éomer spoke before Guthwine, "Because the boy does not lie, nor does Guthwine. They saw what they saw, whether they were bewitched or not. We will go to the Spring, Éothain. We shall receive what fortune it shall bring us. I pray for good fortune, if only a little good news would make these dark days better." With that he turned to gather his things and to saddle his horse. The men separated to follow the command. Before an hour was up, forty horses and men, and one boy, were ready to ride. They set out from the charred buildings with Guthwine taking the lead, now on his own horse, for only he and the boy knew the road ahead.


	2. The Crack of Thunder

**Author's Note:**

**Chapter twooooo! Don't expect me to keep whipping these out so fast. I had the day off of work today. w**

**Anyways, I thought I would explain a bit about the characters**

**Éomer-**** I'm writing him with a mixture of how he acts in the movies, but also pulling from the books. I can't tell you enough how well Karl Urban portrayed Éomer! He was spot on, it's incredible. Éomer is a very steady character, with a usually level head. Since he's the main character for the most part, I will try to keep him as accurate as I can to both versions of him.**

**Éothain-**** this character appears in the books. He's the only one besides Éomer who speaks when the Éored first encounter Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn. I thought giving him a role would help me write better without pulling for straws.**

**Guthwine-**** ... yeah. I named him after Éomer's sword. What'cha gonna do 'bout it? lol He's a more happy go lucky kind of guy, I guess. It's a nice contrast with Éothain's harshness.**

**Earthang-******** this is what the name sounds like to me, anyway, of the boy that rides with his sister to Edoras to warn them of the wild men. They're not the same characters, but i really liked the name. Thengel is the name of Theoden's father, the previous king of Rohan. When Eomer says to Earthang, "Your father bears a kingly name," he was referencing that. Just like some names are more popular in our world, I would think that some names would be popular in Middle Earth too.**

**Ta-ta for now. Enjoy reading Chapter 2,**

**- In Amber Clad**

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**Chapter 2: The Crack of Thunder **

They rode on through the afternoon. The sun shone on the dried grasses and small blankets of snow, glistening on the trickling snowmelt that joined with the Entwash. They rode further still. Firefoot was full of vigor, happy to be running again. He would attempt to take the lead without his master's consent, his usual place in the herd of ruled horses, but Éomer pulled him back beside Guthwine. It was not Éomer leading them this time. He had never been to the Ent Spring. He wondered to himself the stories he heard as a child.

Dusk slowed over the sky after the sunset in the horizon, slower still. The chill of night already set on the air now that the sun no longer warmed it. Foggy breath expelled from the mouths of man and beast. When they halted at last and dismounted, they were not yet at the spring. Éomer would give them only an hour of rest, to eat their packed food and to let the horses eat and water. Éomer stood, leaning against his horse, gazing east and west into the darkness. The night was silent. The sky was clear and the moon and stars softly lit the rolling earth.

The young Éarthang paced impatiently not far from the others. He stopped a moment to roll a small stone under his boot. His fingers grasped a tightly rolled handkerchief. Éomer watched the boy fidget, as though the boy were tossing in turning in bed from troubled dreams.

"Eat, young master, and then we shall go," Éomer said. He could only guess that the boy's hunger had been forgotten in the excitement. Éarthang ran to the others, leaving Éomer alone in peace again. A chill wind had stirred when they arose again on their mounts. Hours passed, as did the miles. Now Éomer saw why the journey so delayed Guthwine. The moon rose to near its zenith, the way before them becoming almost as day. The edge of Fanghorn drew up like a shadow beneath the mountains.

"Fanghorn, my lord!" Éothain called.

"Yes, I see it," Éomer replied. Their destination was near.

The pace was slowed then, for the closer they drew to the forest now there were rockier pathways they needed wind through. The wind rustled the leaves of the forest beyond, and it swept down into the ravines with a low howl. The men grew restless and Éomer slowed the pace from a trot to a walk, cautious in the strange path they were taking. His eyes scanned around him, ears open to any threat. He was not the only rider who gripped his spear tightly.

There was a sudden crack of thunder in the night. The horses reared and the men gasped in surprise. Éomer searched wildly for the origin of the sound, but it echoed so he could not be certain, and then realized the night was clear. "Where is the storm that brings this thunder?" he asked the night. Guthwine turned to him without an answer, the boy in front of him was wide-eyed and dumbstruck. Another howl of wind swept through the ravine. It cried like a woman in horror. More cries followed of men and children in the wind, circling around the horsemen. Their voices rose and faded with the breeze. It was as though they were listening to the cries of the villagers from afar once again. Éomer urged his horse forward, but Firefoot already seemed to know the way. The mouth of the ravine opened to a steep slope that swept down like a bowl, to a pool of deep water far below. Éomer motioned the others to encircle the top. It was quiet now, save for the horses stamping the grass.

For the moment, all was still again. Éomer recalled the boy's words of how he had gazed into the pool. His eyes were drawn there. The water was black, reflections of the sky was as perfect as a mirror. He could see the constellations of his fore-fathers, and the bright star of Elendil. The men waited in the dark, not a sound was uttered. All peered into the waters below, and Éomer began to doubt the boy's word. The cold moon slowly crept to its zenith. Its reflection was now starkly in the middle of the pool. At that moment, the wind howled again.

CRACK! Went the sound of thunder. The horses and men stirred, for the sound came not from the sky, but the Ent Spring itself. Ripples on the water followed the hollow screams. "No!" a woman's voice cried. And then the ripples formed without wind. In the center of each ripple, ghostly images shone in the widening frame. The pool glowed of moonlight, as if the reflection of the moon was the moon itself, sunken deep in the bottom of it. Behind their helmets, the faces of the men shown white in the darkness, their golden hair blew in the wind. The screams continued and the men watched the scene below. It was something they had seen many times before, the chaos and desperation of tragic loss. For many bodies already strewn the ground.

A new ripple formed, it showed the faces of three young maidens. Their hair was taught high on their heads, and they wore dresses of splendor and rich embellishment. These maidens clung together in fear. An older man stood in front of them, shielding them with his arms. "Stay behind me!" he told them, his words quivering.

Another ripple spread. It showed not orcs, but Men clad in back armor with black veils obscuring their visage. The forward most man strode forward, and in his hand he carried a black mallet, sinister in its twisted form. His steps left behind red footprints.

Another ripple spread. The three maidens cowered behind the one protecting them, for the dark man now stood before them, his face unseen. The protector begged, "Please! Take me. Let my daughters go!"

Another ripple spread. The dark man's voice uttered a malicious statement, "We don't need any of you." He raised his mallet and

CRACK! The sound of thunder was accompanies by fire that spit from the mallet. The protector fell to the ground, clutching his chest. The maidens screamed, and then two more fires spit. Two more fell suddenly. The last of the maidens stood alone, her pale dress spattered with red. She said nothing, nor did she scream. Her chest rose and fell sharply.

Another ripple spread. The dark man stepped over the bodies until he stood before the last maiden. He scoffed, "What? Won't you give tears for your dear family?" His words mocked her coldly. There was a cruel smile behind that veil, even though it could not be seen it could be heard clearly. The man raised the mallet before the maiden's face. Éomer shifted in his seat. He knew what was to come.

Another ripple spread. "No," She said, voice quivering. Before now, all other faces had been obscured by the shifting surface. Now the maiden's face was in focus. It was calm, with only knitted eyebrows hinting to her distress. She raised her reddened eyes to meet the man's slated face, "I will give them justice."

There was flash of movement. Ripples sprung out everywhere. Éomer's eyes went from one to the other. It was difficult to keep track of them. Fire and thunder rumbled and the wind shook the grass beneath them. Firefoot stamped the ground. Then a single ripple grew from the center. It washed all the other ripples away. The maiden now stood above the dark man, who bled from holes in his legs. There was a moment. The woman lifted the mallet to the man's head. She let a breath escape her, and then…

CRACK! An invisible force impaled the dark man's head. His body slumped to the marble floor with dull clunk.

"She is victorious!" one of the horsemen exclaimed. The men began to cheer, but Éomer shouted,

"Silence!" Then he murmured under his breath, "It is not over."

Another ripple. The maiden's shoulders fell, and the mallet clamored onto the floor. She lifted her hands to cover her face, but stopped, for they were soaked in blood. Éomer felt for her. His heart, too, had been stopped by the sight of blood on his hands. It was a sight that could never been unseen. The woman's face contorted then, and a single heave of her chest was given before a voice spoke in the darkness.

"Do not weep, maiden of Earth," the voice spoke. It was low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. "For I have come, bringing news that your family may yet live." The water shifted then. The whole of the pool became a window, with the ripples only forming when the voice spoke his gentle words.

The woman shook. "Are you an angel?"

"No," said the voice.

The woman clenched her fists, "Only God can bring back the dead." Her voice broke. She gulped the pain that took her throat, refusing to let the emotion silence her.

"I can not give life to those who are dead, but I can sustain it for those who have not yet died," the voice said softly. The low voice, from who ever it came, was giving hope to her. "There is still time to save them." The woman's head rose, hope indeed lit in her reddened eyes. "I see you desire to hear more. Hearken to me, my child, I counsel you now. Allow me to give time to your loved ones, so that they may be found and revived. So that they may live, you must forsake something most precious."

The woman's brow became knitted again. "If you are asking for my soul…" her voice trailed off in anger, the emotion once again shutting her throat.

"No, my child. The price to be made is time, and the time that is given shall be your own."

To this the horsemen looked to one another. Would the maiden pay this price? They all had become engrossed in the tellings of the pool. It was as though they were children again, sitting by the fireside while the elders recounted the legends of old through song and rhyme. They waited eagerly for the maiden's reply.

The maiden stood in contemplation. She said at last, "Time… what do you mean by 'my time'?" The maiden had the mind to clarify the subtleties of the voice's words. She seemed to not be one to decide rashly, despite the dire reality and need of her situation.

The voice answered in a tone of sympathy, "Your time, my child, is your time on Earth. To give more life to so many that you love, life must be taken away. You will leave this life, never to return. It will be as though you never lived, and those you love will not have known you, will not remember you, save for the faintest of feelings that there is a hole in their hearts." The words became more grave as the voice spoke. The maiden's face fell all the more. "It is much to ask, my child, but that is the way of Time, and to change it, a high price must be paid." It said now, with a gentle question, "Will you pay this price?"

The horsemen held their breath.

"… Yes," the young maiden whispered, the decision final and sure.

The spring burst to the sky. Water rose in a vertical torrent and the sound it made was the roar of a tall waterfall. The Éored drew back for fear of being sprayed, but there was no need, for the droplets of water turned to snow in the winter air and fell gently around them. Guthwine said in his startled state, "My lord, what is happening?" The water continued to churn below.

Éomer answered, "You said it yourself, Guthwine. Sorcery is at work here."

"By the Valar!" Éothain cried. Éomer and Guthwine returned their eyes to the pillar of water, for it indeed had become a pillar. The roar of the water softened to the crunching and moaning of water turning into ice, not unlike the sound of a boot stepping into several feet of new fallen snow. The pillar was as a tree spreading its roots, ice creeping outwards to the edges of the bank. When all moving water had been frozen, the silence of the night returned.

The Éored marveled at the sight before them. A tree of ice glistened under the stars. The branches were wide and splayed like fans, trickling the frozen water that had yet to escape and become snow. The trunk was tall and proud, ever straight until it came to meet the surface of the pool, and there at the base a shadow lie within. Earthang pointed, "Look!"

A crack had appeared before the shadow. It slithered upwards like a vine until it reached the branches and then… the whole tree shattered. Thousands of shards spilled over the surface, sliding away. The Éored stirred again, for below them in the remnants of the tree, the young, brave maiden was standing alone in the cold night air.


	3. Breaking a Spell

**Author's note:**

**This is too much fun. I can't get home fast enough to work on this. Like it or dislike it, I don't care. I'm doing this for fun. **

**I freaking love Firefoot. ... just sayin'.**

**- In Amber Clad**

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**Chapter 3: Breaking a Spell.**

"A small gift to you, Maiden of Earth," the voice spoke, "the comprehension of the first words you hear in this realm and stains cleansed from your golden gown."

There she stood on the frozen water, a solitary ghost of pale gold. The dress she wore was as when she first appeared in the ripples, the red stains indeed removed. Warm breath escaped the maiden in short wisps, if at all, since she seemed not to desire it. Her eyes down casted to the spring, crestfallen, and her delicate hands stayed by her side.

"Heed these words. Those who tamper with time will have fate inflicted upon them. Fare thee well."

The voice spoke no more, and the light now shown from the sky above. No longer did the feel or sound or sight of magic linger. The men murmured, below a whisper. The woman that was before just a vision was now below them and very real. The horses that had become unsure of the passing events and wished nothing more to flee were now curious of the new stranger. Their ears turned to her and brown eyes blinked slowly. Firefoot tossed his head, and neighed, as an attempt to wake the maiden from her somber trance. Éomer corrected him with a small flick of the reigns. He observed around him that no man mustered the will to speak greetings. This would not do.

Éomer's feet found the ground, and he patted Firefoot's neck with his right hand and handed off his spear to Éothain with the other. Éothain muttered, "My Lord?"

The Marshal left his horse behind. In silence the Rohirrim watched their leader find his way quietly to the bank. Éomer was cautious, for the slope was steep and the grass was slick. Now a new test. The ice was next. Éomer placed his boot on the edge, which made one of his men call out, unnerved. The reason for concern was that the Mashal was tall, taller than all the rest. Such a tall man wearing many layers of heavy armors and leathers would be chancing a fall into the deathly waters. There was no way of telling if the ice would hold, however, Éomer raised his hand and looked back. The man was made quiet from the gestural command. Éomer slowly put his weight onto the surface, testing the waters, as it was.

He extended his other boot on the slick white. Then he stepped again and waited. No moans made a warning, nor did any cracks begin to splinter. The ice held. Remaining cautious, but now confidant, Éomer walked out, weaving around or kicking away the larger breakings of the tree. All the while, Éomer would half watch his steps and half glimpse sight of the maiden, who seemed still entranced from the magic spell. When he drew near at last and stood before her, this is what he saw.

The dress she wore was indeed that of a pale gold. Even in the moonlight, it drew the color of white wines into Éomer's mind. It was draped to her side and it pulled together to hug her small frame, and green vines found their way along the hemming. Though the dress was admirable, his eyes saw only the cold goosing her sleeveless arms, how they trembled at her side. Nay, her whole body trembled. He wondered if she was crying, and he could not blame her if she was, but no tears wet her cheeks.

Indeed, it seemed as though she still were under a spell, or still caught in the nightmare. He had stood there long enough for his presence to be known, but she did not see him. She did not see his boots. She did not see his armored chest or the face under the helm. She did not see the man who had walked chancing death to greet her. Éomer saw this, and knew words would not be heard either. He extended his hand and waited.

The gesture was a greeting, gentle and kind. It was also an offer, to give comfort in a small way through a simple touch. Her eyes focused at last. She saw the hand that was offered. She lifted her own, and her frozen fingers met his that waited there between them. Her eyes followed his mailed arm and found his face. She saw the man who greeted her, and the creased brow above his consoling eyes.

Éomer stepped back and bid her to follow, gently pulling her with him. She followed him through the winding path. He went slower still than when he had first ventured across, for now he had two to look after. A light click was made of each contact of her shoes, contrasting the deep, soft clunk of his boots. They reached the bank and stepped onto it gladly. Éomer held her to his side as he guided her up the slope. She lifted her skirts, lest she would trip. They reached the top and Firefoot walked forward to greet them, huffing a blast of fog. The warmth of it encompassed the maiden for a brief moment, and then the maiden's body awoke to the knowledge that she was cold. She clasped her arms as she began to shiver.

Éomer unlatched his pack and retrieved a heavy blanket. He wrapped it around her narrow shoulders and then lifted her into the saddle. He sprung up behind her and fit is feet into the stirrups. He turned to his men, who all had been watching intently. They waited for him to speak.

"We all witnessed what has transpired here this night," Éomer said, with a voice voluminous enough for all of them to hear. "This woman was borne forth into Middle Earth from the waters of Ent Spring. She is a citizen of Rohan until Théoden King deems otherwise." He checked each face, and he nodded when he was certain of them. "We return to the village. Hup!" He commanded Firefoot and off they went, going from whence they came, with a new Rohirrim in their midst.


	4. Thoughts that Wander

**Author's Note:**

**I stayed up waaaayyyy too late to write this. Sorry if it's short, but it tells everything I wanted to in the way I wanted to tell it. Goodnight. Enjoy some backstory for our favorite stallion. 33**

**-In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Thoughts that Wander**

The journey seemed shorter on the return path. The Éored had learned the way, as had their horses. The ravines were unwound behind them. A long stretch lay ahead. The waves of earth crashed beneath a hundred and twenty hoofs, for each horse had four, and forty horses galloped. To ride and ride, this was what it meant to be in land of Rohan, home of the horse lords. Éomer would have it a way none other. Even in winter, when the very breath was chilled and the grays of snow frosted the yellow grass, this was his country. This was the home Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Mashal of the Riddermark.

Many years has passed since he was given this charge. He had been young, and bold. The King had trusted him with these miles of grass, with the many villages scattered across them, and with the men that rode with him. The men were like horses themselves. Éomer was new and untested. They did not trust him, and loyalty was only in name, and not in blood. In his youth, Éomer likened their treatment to that of an unbroken stallion. He had dealt with stallions. The boldest of all had dealt him many aches and demanded many toils.

The stallion was Firefoot. A proud and virulently stubborn descendant of the Mearas, the young horse refused him. Éomer was equally proud and stubborn, young was he was too. He refused to allow the horse to break the man. He had taken a new approach. He would not ride Firefoot, he had told the King, who had given him to Éomer. He would not ride until the horse came when uncalled. Every day Éomer would be at the horse's side. Éomer would not allow anyone else to care for him. He would brush his coat, clean his hoofs, and braid his mane. He took the time to learn the personality of this horse. He found that Firefoot loved plums, even more so than apples. Scratching the spot between his left haunch and his neck caused the horse's face to lift and pucker his velvet lips. Éomer taught Firefoot to kick with the snap of his fingers. He taught him to roll, to jump, and to rear. For three months, this was the way they bonded.

Then came the test. Beyond the gates of Edoras, Éomer walked to a lone hill with Firefoot in tow. Éomer removed the reins and with a whack, slapped the horse's rear. Firefoot bolted and ran. He ran far, further and further into the hills till he became but a dot. Éomer remained on the hill. Éomer never told how long he waited, but Éowyn, his sister, watched from the high tower. For what seems like hours, she had said, her brother patiently sat.

Éomer's faith was rewarded. Firefoot approached him, and nuzzled his golden head. The bond had been made, and the test of friendship was passed.

The Éored was much like Firefoot in this manner. They were all grown men, and he had been but a boy in their eyes. He accepted this challenge. He observed their strengths and weaknesses. Each man's name was learned and was given Éomer's time. No horseman was neglected. He demanded more of them than they demanded of themselves. Over time he proved his worth as a leader, for it was they who had to prove themselves as followers. The day came when a host of orcs attacked them. Their bonds were tested. Many hours of battle ensued, and under the leadership of the Marshal, they rose victorious, no man or horse lost. They celebrated his name in the ceremonial burning of the pile. From that day forth, they took his word as their bond, for that was the love for their leader.

The thoughts of Éomer returned from hours of wander. He had all but forgotten the maiden until she shifted in her seat. He adjusted his arm around her side that she might be more comfortable. Her head rested on his chest, though he could not feel it beneath the leather decorated metal. She had not slept, he knew. If she had, her weight would have shifted further, and he would have had to hold her relaxed body more firmly. She still shivered, now and then. The blanket was not enough. Surely her legs and feet were buffeted by wind. The back of a horse in winter was no place for lavish dresses and there were many hours yet until dawn.

Éomer slowed the company to a halt. He instructed, "We shall rest here for an hour, as before. Let a fire be built and a guard posted." This was done. Éothain and four men patrolled the circumference of the temporary stop. Guthwine and three others stoked up a respectable fire. The maiden was seated in front of it, and she held her frozen hands to its flicker. It seemed a trick of the firelight that her taught hair blazed.

"Eat," Éomer stated.

The girl started at his voice. She turned and saw him sitting near, handing her a small loaf of bread, waybread of the Rohirrim. She took it coyly and ate it in small bites. Satisfied, he also handed her a drink of water. This girl was indeed no fool. She had the senses about her replenish her strength. When the loaf was gone, Éomer had the mind to ask questions, but the memory of her tragedy stopped him. There was no reason to ask what he already knew. He moved to stand so he could tend to his horse, but stopped when she spoke for the first time.

"… Did I do the right thing?" the maiden asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes resting on the dancing flames.

The men around stopped to listen, though her brief words were spent. Did she do the right thing… this was the cause of her silence? Éomer tried to glimpse behind her reasoning. Clearly this thought had tormented her these hours. At a moment, he replied.

"You did not doubt then," he said, referring to when she stood above her assailant, and struck him with fire. "Do not doubt your heart now."

It was hard to tell if the words he chose gave her comfort, but she pulled the blanket closer. He breathed out through his nose and stood. They would be leaving soon. He was not allowed the luxury to sit idle and forget his charge. There were things to be tended.


	5. Rebuilding Without Lament

**Author's Note:**

**Whew! Another chapter! This one is a longer one, compared to the last two. I've introduced another character, Aden, one of the riders. He's non-cannonical. There is also two more characters, but they're unnamed. You may recognize them from Two Towers, but I'll explain in chapters much further down the rode. **

**There's a bit of humor in this one again. Writing two friends joking with one another is entertaining, to say the least. hehe**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Rebuilding Without Lament**

It was the noontime of the fourth day. The night gave rise to new warmth. Though the wind was chill, the sun blessed the world with its rays. The frost melted under it, and the mud caked the legs of the horses that trod it. The men of the Mark were glad of it. They felt their bones thaw and their hands strengthen. Their hearts were lightened further in the sight of the village not a league away.

A company waited in the plaza to greet them. The horsemen halted there and unseated. One of the men who waited was Aden, son of Foren, approached the Marshal with great concern, "My Lord, the Red Dawn has risen this morn! All of us have been accounted for, and so our hearts despaired in your absence. Who of those that rode with you have fallen?" He clasped his green cloak.

"None of ours fell," Éomer reported, dismounting. He turned to the maiden and offered his help to let her down. "It was not for us, but for she who the Red Dawn rose." The Maiden's feet now met the ground and Éomer released her. Aden was speechless. He had not noticed the girl in his haste. She looked at him from beneath the blanket cloaked over her head, with green-blue eyes.

"She?" Aden said. Éomer nodded. Aden gave a small bow, "My Lady." She merely blinked at him. Aden was to ask many questions, but Éomer raised his hand.

"There is more to tell than a moment can spare," he said, shaking his head. "We must ride to Edoras."

"To Edoras!" Adan exclaimed, "But you've only just arrived." Aden wondered if the maiden was the cause, and looked at her quizzically.

The Marshal observed the village and saw all was going well, given the recent events. "The homes are being rebuilt, the orcs are no more, and the hearts of the Éorlingas are on the mend. There is little reason for all our company to remain." Firefoot twisted his neck around and nibbled at the girl's blanket. She returned the attention with a rub to his cheek. Éomer continued, "The villagers will handle the rest. Our need here is done, and new needs call for the King's hand."

The battle in the village left evidence on all sides, on all the fields, and in the newly made graves of stones. The smell of fire still hung in the air. The new building that was built from the old was completed, its roof fully thatched. It stood as a testament to the resilience of the people of Rohan. Éomer would have liked to finish it, to have threaded the final bushel on himself (should Firefoot not have eaten it, that is). He loved to ride and to lead, but working with his hands gave him peace of mind. There was something to be said how the feel of earth, wood, or stone left a memory on the fingers.

The tall man walked here and there, checking his men for the trip ahead. The canvas tents were stroked and packed. Food was rationed and water was poured into their canteens. The horses were fed and watered, brushed and saddled. In less than two hours these things were done. Soon they would leave this place for Edoras, home of the King.

In the final stages of preparation, Éothain came to Éomer and they conversed.

"I hate to leave this place, so soon, but I cannot deny that my heart desires to see the golden roof of Meduseld. We have been kept long away from our houses. Too long," Éothain confessed.

"Aye," Éomer agreed. "My sister will greet me warmly this time, I think."

Éothain laughed, "As I recall, you brought her wrath on yourself, my friend."

Éomer smirked, and clutched his chest, feigning innocence, "_I_ brought her wrath? Nay, man, it was her own misjudgment of time that wrought her distress. She believed my return to be a week later. 'Tis no fault of mine that I saw her gift early."

"But it is fault of yours that you received an unfinished tunic!"

Éomer gave his hands to the air, and relented, "Yes, yes, but I care not. I rather prefer a shirt without my sister's embroidery. Have you ever felt them? Itchy and course as a hog's nose!" He shuddered at the thought. Éothain have a laugh, but quickly cleared his throat,

"My lord, you should not insult the White Lady. Her ears may find it."

Éomer rose a brow, "And who would tell her?" He let the question hang, before adding, "And what would happen to the unfortunate man that did so?"

"… No one, my Lord," Éothain coughed, bouncing his heels. Both men were smirking again. It was good fun to jest, as they often did. Éomer was glad to have a lieutenant that spoke plainly with him. He gave his friend a good slap on the shoulder and took to the stairs, but stopped when he saw something out of place.

"Éothain," Éomer asked, "why is the maiden not resting? Did I not tell you to find her a bed?" The girl stood by the water, still wrapped in the blanket. Her golden gown glimmered in the sunlight, as did her hair. Though still tightly wound atop her head, the hair was the color of autumn's leaves, or dark maple wood with a sable glaze. Red hair was not a color seen in Rohan, for all its people had heads of gold and light brown. The only other Éorling that the Marshal knew to have such color was Háma, who served in the royal court as doorward to the halls of Meduseld. Indeed, the color was the same.

"I did, and led her to it, but she refused," Éothain answered.

"She spoke?" Éomer was surprised. He had come to think of her as quite taciturn. Perhaps the assumption was wrongfully put.

"Yes, but only to say, how did she say it? She said, 'I've never been able to sleep during the day, but thank you'." Éothain turned to see the maiden by the lake, who was joined now by the young boy, Éarthang. The boy seemed to be talking to her with much enthusiasm. With a thought, he said, "Her manner of speech is strange, and her accent… I cannot place it. But did you know she could speak Rohiric? In our language she replied!"

" '_A small gift to you, Maiden of Earth, comprehension of the first words spoken to you in this realm and stains cleansed from your golden gown'_," repeated Éomer in the common tongue of Westron, the words of the mysterious voice that granted her wish. Éomer noticed Éothain's confusion, so he explained, "The gift the voice spoke of, it was to give her the language she encountered first. When I spoke to the Éored, I had spoken in Rohirric."

"I see!" Éothain gasped. "But you did not do so on purpose. You only ever speak to us in the language of our fathers." Éomer did not reply, but did raise his brows. Éothain's mouth dropped in astonishment, "Wait.. you.. You mean that you spoke Rohirric on purpose?" The man did not get his answer, for a woman cried out across the way as she ran toward the water, interrupting them.

"Éarthang! Éarthang! Oh, my son!" The woman dropped to her knees and caught the boy in her arms. She held him there, sobbing, but all the while, with a joyous smile on her face.

Éomer growled, "Did no one tell the woman her son was alive and rode with us to Ent Spring?" He did not wait for an answer and took the last of the steps down. He walked the path to the water, the reunion unfolding. There were smiles and embraces at first. Then the woman took the boys face in her hands. Words were spoken, and the boy began to cry. In the corner of his eye, Éomer saw a toddler with a mop of yellow curls finding her way to them. Perhaps she was Éarthang's sister. Éomer could hear them now, closing the distance between them. The woman whispered comforting words as the boy sobbed. "I ask your forgiveness, my lady, for I have erred." Éomer bowed his head, "I did not have my men give you news that your son was he who led us to the Ent Spring the day prior."

The woman stood, her hand tightly grasping her son's. "Ent Spring? Nay, my lord! You have brought my son home to me, whom I thought was dead. Thank you, my lord! I cannot repay your kindness." The woman laid many kisses on her son's head. The toddler found her way to them, and the woman gathered her in her arms as well. The heart of Éomer was warmed, for not all had been lost for this family. They bowed and left for the houses.

"Perhaps there is some truth to legends," Éomer mused. He turned to the maiden to see if she would agree. He met a different look on her freckled face. Her eyes seemed adrift in another world, pained and deep in thought. "What troubles you, my lady?" He asked.

Her eyes broke from the other world, and her face changed. A confidence squared her shoulders and she rose to her full height, though it was still a full head shorter than him. She did not meet his concerned gaze, but said, "Nothing… compared to them."


	6. Prices That Were Paid

**Author's Note:**

**First off, thank you to those who have reviewed. I really appreciate it. And yeah.. I try my best to keep characters (Eomer, cough) in character. Too often in fan fics I find people write them however they want to make things work... that doesn't make sense. People should work the story to fit the characters, not the other way around. .. but that's just me. Cuz, I like a challenge. **

**CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. XD**

**Last update for a bit. I'm going on vacation and I won't have access to internet. But fear not! I'll shall be writing anyway and will update as soon as I get back. I kind of feel like I could have embellished this chapter a bit more, with descriptions or whatnot, but honestly this is the chapter with the most dialogue so far, and it's the only one to take place in a single setting. I felt like too much descriptors would draw away from the conversation around the fire. **

**We meet another Rohirrim. He has a funny name. Let me know what you think of him. haha**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Prices that were Paid**

Sparks flew like fireflies. A soft, tender crackling of the fire eased the hearts of the men. The men gathered around and exchanged hearty laughter. Roast duck turned over the coals, and a soup was boiled beside it. There were a few fires set up around the encampment, set up like petals to a flower, and at its center was the largest fire, where the Marshal, his Lieutenant, and the maiden guest sat. Night had fallen. It was time to replenish with food and sleep.

The gloom that had beset the maiden seemed vanished. She eyes and ears followed the talk around the fire with great interest, though she did not add words of her own. The man who cooked tested the soup and duck. He nodded with a gulp and distributed bowls one by one, each bowl with a slice of the duck plopped into the soup. Éomer removed his gloves so the bowl would warm his hands. He would wait for the soup to cool before drinking it.

"The sooner we return to Edoras the better. Chilled to the bone, I am! Let it leave me with a draft of hot mead and a warm bath," said one man, with a beard that reached his chest. He blew on his soup eagerly.

"No doubt you wish your soup to be your mead and not your meal," Éothain laughed.

"Indeed I do," replied the bearded man between blows.

Éothain sniffed the air and gave a foul face, "I think we all need a bath."

The bearded man took his first gulp, and drank it greedily thereafter. Éomer watched the man with a look of distaste, "Don't choke yourself, man." Éomer had not spoken soon enough. The bearded man took the soup down the windpipe. He coughed and sputtered, and Éothain slapped his back.

"You alright?" Éothain asked.

He wheezed a response, "I think I swallowed the duck whole!"

The men around the fire burst out in laughter, and a lighter laugh joined them. The soup was cooled enough now for them all to drink, and it became rather quiet. The fire danced to the songs of crickets and the whistles of the wind through the grass.

When Éomer had finished his bowl, he said, "We should call you Duck's Bane." The men fire erupted at the jest, though Éomer's face was quite serious, "How in Middle Earth did you swallow it whole?" His question was rightly asked, since the slices were easily worth five bites of a grown man's mouth.

" 'Middle' Earth?"

The men quieted when they realized the maiden was who had spoken. "Is that what you call your world?" She asked, though suddenly self conscious of their attention.

Éomer, who had been resting on his elbows, put a hand on his waist. "How do you mean?"

She thought a moment, "You said, 'Middle-earth', and not just 'Earth.'"

Éomer recalled again the words the voice had spoken, _Maiden of Earth_ she was called. "Rohan is the vast plains around you, home of the horse lords," he motioned to himself and the others. "Rohan is but one of many countries that claim borders on the whole of Middle-earth. It is said that in the world of Arda there are many lands, but we are at the center. Middle-earth." The maiden listened to his words with great care. Éomer could see the pieces weaving together in her mind.

"Éomer, why do you lecture the poor girl with knowledge that is common?" Duck's Bane grunted, still licking his bowl.

Éothain rebuked him, "She is not common. You heard, did you not?"

"I meant no offense," Duck's Bane said. "But how far, honestly, could she have come? There are limits to magic, or so the tales tell."

"Not where but when…" She said. The maiden noticed Éomer's questioning face. The maiden muttered, "Aye felaik aymat thuhrenissans festivle…"

The Marshal was caught off guard when she suddenly spoke in Westron, and her strange accent added to the difficulty translating it. _I feel like I'm at thurenissans festival_, Éomer put together, though the word "thurenissans" held no meaning for him. He decided to keep her from quieting. "How do you take Rohan, my lady?"

The maiden looked to the fire again. "Cold." She continued, "But the people here make up for it. You've all been very kind to me."

Éomer and the others bowed their heads in thanks of the compliment. Éomer motioned to himself and then the others, "I am Éomer, son of Éomund. Of my company are my liutenant, Éothain, and over there is Guthwine and Aden."

She smiled at them, with teeth like beads of pearl, and added, "And Duck's Bane."

The bearded man straightened, "Here now! I have a name." But Éothain whacked him on the back, he himself humored.

"'Tis not your name I wish to hear," Éothain grinned, "but the lady's. Tell us, what is your name?"

The red haired maiden opened her mouth to answer, but no words came from it. She grasped her blanket, her smile fading fast. "I…" she started, but could not continue.

"You have a name… do you not?" Éothain asked.

"Yes, I … I do, but…" was all she said, before retreating to her mind again. She held her forehead to her fingertips. Her countenance grew to one of horror. Éomer watched her eyes shifting in the firelight, as if searching through endless halls in her mind, racing to recall. Several times she tried to speak it, but her voice never broke through her lips.

Guthwine gave a thought, "Could it be an effect of the spell?" The maiden looked at him hopefully. "Perhaps… you cannot remember it because sorcery removed you. Your name may have stayed behind?"

Éothain shook his head, "You speak riddles, Guthwine."

"No," the maiden said. The horror had lifted from her face, but it still wore worry. Her eyes shifted again. She muttered words such as 'space time' and 'prime directive.' The men waited patiently, though unsuredly. "I think he's right, or at least, mostly right." She raised her head and met their eyes, "My time was taken away. Everyone I knew doesn't remember me, because I never existed. I'm a paradox…" she gasped, once more the horror fell her face. "How could my parents name me if they never knew me?"

Éomer stretched out his hand and laid it on her shoulder, "Then we shall name you." The touch seemed to have stricken the tears from escaping her eyes, and the words calmed her. The maiden would be given a new name…

"Aye!" the men agreed. The next quarter hour was spent giving names. Some of the names were meant to cheer her, even the bearded man jested with a name like 'soup's bane', but that was quickly thrown aside to names like 'Fyrin,' 'Morgél,' or 'Fará.' None of these appealed to her, nor did were they fitting of her likeness. There are some names in the world that fit the faces that bear them. There is often Kings who bear kingly names, or kindly women whose name suggests their welcoming nature. The given names fell short in all, and the men relented.

"Don't fret, my lady," Guthwine comforted.

"Perhaps the King shall name you," said Éomer. The maiden's shoulders dropped.

"I've… never met a King before."

"You shall meet him tomorrow. Edoras lies beyond the river Snowbourne, which we should cross before sunset," a fond memory casted over his face, as it did with the others at the mere mention of their home. The maiden saw their fondness, and said with sincerity,

"It sounds like a wonderful place."

Éomer nodded, "It is." His voice changed then. It became soft, despite its deepness. "Edoras is a hill for that rises up before the mountains, a lonely sentinel of wooden walls and golden thatches. On its peak graces the grand halls of Meduseld, carved and stoned by the second king of Rohan. Brego was his name. Therein lies the throne, on which Théoden King sits, and there he will give you a name," he told, and then looking away from the coals added, "my lady."

The maiden seemed enchanted, imagining the city from his loving description, "I can't wait to see it."

Éomer nodded. "And you shall," He added with a tilt of his head, "_tomorrow_." He rose from his seat and called the attention of his men. "Now we go to bed and rest for a long ride in the morning. Éothain, please escort the lady to her tent." With a bow, "Goodnight."

Éothain led her to a tent not far from the fire and bid her to have sweet dreams. And dreams she did have, sweet and peaceful. She dreamt of Edoras, and the flowing manes of horses in the wind.


	7. To Edoras, and the King

**Author's Note: **

**I'm back from vacation! Ahhh Mexico was perfect. Relaxing on the beach.. eating chips and salsa, boogie boarding, shopping, going for tequila shots with friends. Hehe Good times. As promised, another chapter with my return! I had a lot of fun writing on the beach. Normally I have my paint set out, but this time I was too busy making up stories to do art. haha. **

**** To**** Reviewers:**** I'm glad the OC is doing well in your eyes. I promise "the maiden" will be more fleshed out (and named) as the story goes on. Writing in 3rd person takes a different approach when it comes to understanding characters. You get to know them through their actions and words rather than every single thought that crosses their mind. It always annoys me when writers blurb out everything in a huge chunk, with a wall of text describing every painful detail or thought of a character or place in one go. Oi... I think it's better to spread it out, with tidbits of information to collect, like a game, piecing a character together over many chapters and forming your own opinions about them rather than rely on the author's point blank, take-my-word-for-LAW attitude. **

**I'll shut up now.**

**Another canon character makes an appearance!**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 7: To Edoras, and the King**

To Edoras they rode. The day was long, and the ride, hard. Only once did they stop for rest and food. They passed a small village on the way. Its few inhabitants of simple shepherds waved at them as they passed. The Éored raised their spears in recognition. It seemed like a quaint village, for purpose no more than farming and tending to flocks.

The hills stretched to the horizon. There were few trees, and what little there were stood for harvesting fruits of various sorts. They were naked, but would be sprouting flowers and leaves in the coming spring.

"What kind of orchard is this?" the maiden asked, pointing. Éomer looked back, checking.

"Plums, I believe," he said.

"Ooo. Those are tasty," she said.

"Firefoot would agree," Éomer mused.

The girl turned. "What?"

He shook his head, the white horse hair atop his helmet tussling a bit, "My horse, Firefoot. He's quite fond of plums."

"Really?" she asked, with a face writ with surprise and amusement before facing forward again, "I didn't know horses could eat plums."

"They can eat most fruits and vegetables, I suppose. Though onions are poisonous to them. We must take care they do not find wild onions during the warmer months."

"Good. More for me!" she grinned. "I could eat onions with anything."

"For dessert?" Éomer asked.

"What? Noooo…" She laughed. "Okay, well, with almost anything."

The village was far behind, growing smaller and smaller. They passed a pond, fozen over with sand blowing patterns across it. The villagers used its waters for fishing. There were remnants of nets and things laid on wooden stands nearby. The maiden could catch only a glimpse before it was lost behind the horses following them.

The maiden spoke again, "… It's so strange, to be talking in a new language like this. What is it called?"

"Rohirric," Éomer supplied.

"Rohirric…" she sounded the name in her mouth, trying to pronounce it correctly. "Hmn… You know, it took me five years to learn how to speak Spanish, and even then I could never speak it fluently. I was so close to being bilingual. All I needed to do was spend a few months in a Spanish speaking country, like Spain or Ecuador, Venezuela…"

"What is Spanish?" Éomer asked. He had never heard of this language.

"Español, la lengua de Españay latinoamericanos," she said in the foreign language. The way it rolled off her tongue almost seemed sensual, but so unlike Westron or what little Éomer had heard of elvish Quenya or Sindarin. She translated, "Spanish, the language of Spain and Latin Americans. What good it does for me now… Oi, five years wasted on a language I'll never use again. And now I suddenly know Rohirric. … That's plain cheating."

Just as quickly has she had emerged from silence she submerged into it again. Her voice was like a fish, in that way, Éomer noted. It found its way to the surface, as if to investigate a curious thing afloat just beyond the edge of her attention. Once the thing was spoken of and done, her voice would disappear and linger in the depths of thought for a time.

The manes of the horses whipped in the cold wind. The sun held little warmth. The frost never melted so the grass gave a crunch with every hoof that met it, though the sound was drowned in the rumble of one hundred and twenty travelling horses. The maiden sat against Éomer like a bundle, tightly wrapped and head covered to stop the wind from disheveling her decorative bun and braids.

The hours went by. The mountains grew. The sun fell to the West. They rose over a great hill and before them lay a long expanse of grasses that stretched far away to the feet of the mountains. Between the Éored and the mountains, a meandering river crossed their path, and a lonely hill speckled with golden roofs peaked up from the ground.

"Is that it?" the maiden broke from her hours of silence, with a tinge of excitement. "Is that Edoras?"

Éomer smirked to how she pronounced the name of his home. "Yes. And we come to it early! The horses want to be home just as much as we. Their pace has quickened at the sight of it."

The path was straight and true until they reached the river. They splashed across it, and the horses whinnied. The maiden gave a gasp when the cold water wet her ankles. "Huah! That's cold!" she shook her feet. "Goodness. If my feet weren't frozen before, they are now. Oiyaaa…" Éothain could be heard chuckled from behind. The maiden leaned out a bit, trusting her rider to hold her. "Yeah, you go ahead and laugh! Yeah, I see you, Mister Lieutenant!" she scolded playfully when Éothain had feigned anonymity.

A horn blasted from behind, and then another. Fifteen of the horsemen sounded their horns together, announcing their arrival to the city walls. The walls were made of tipped tree trunks founded on a base of stone. Guards on the high towers sounded a reply and the gates opened. The two guards that were posted on the ground stepped aside and rose their spears, "Hail, Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark!" they shouted as the horsemen passed.

The Éored climbed up the muddy streets. The higher they climbed the grander the houses became. Each house was beautifully carved, with weaving vines and sigils of the families that lived in them. Men carried packages and barrels to places of business. Women sat on porches and smiled at them while holding their children from running into the street, for the children wished to run with the horsemen they so admired.

Smoke rose from chimneys, and everywhere the smells of supper carried with it. That served to give a reminding ache to the empty stomach. Otherwise, the smells of the city were a stewed broth of wet earth, fresh hay, and grassy manure. All these things had the crispness and bite of winter.

The pace slowed to a halt. They had reached the top. Most of the hundred and twenty riders dismounted and lead their horses into a magnificent house with splendid carvings and rounded windows. This place was the stables. Its finery spoke of the value of horses in this land, which some would claim to be prized more than the ownership of land, sword, or even title. All but a few of the Éored stayed at this place. Éomer, Éothain and Guthwine continued up the slope to a lawn that would be green if not for the snow. It lay like a mantle, for it its center was the house of the crown, the house of the King; the grand mead hall of Meduseld.

At last they dismounted, the maiden having to wait for the help of Éomer since she had ridden sidesaddle and had no stirrups to use. The wind blew fiercely on the hilltop. The mountains acted as a funnel, blasting the wind from the North and West. The green capes of the riders and the golden skirts of the maiden fluttered like flags (save for Éomer, who wore no cape, but his chainmail did make a sound like heavy wind chimes).

Éomer gave the maiden his arm, which she took after a moment of hesitation, the sight of the steep steps ahead confirming the good notion. He led her up the steps of stone, careful not to slip on any ice that slicked it. Éomer thought it very much like the first meeting of the maiden and himself, when he had led her up the slope. Though, this time she was fully aware of her surroundings. Each step seemed to unnerve her. No doubt she was worried of the coming meeting with the King. Her anxiety was tangible from the grip of her thin hands still cold from the ride.

A man stood at the top with an escort of guards, their heads covered with helms sporting tails of black horsehair. The man's face was thick with a grizzled red beard. He wore a thick coat of scale armor and rested a large hand on his sword, but not threateningly so. This man was Háma, the doorward of Meduseld, and captain of the King's Guard. "Welcome, Éomer," he greeted. The two men grasped forearms and gave a strong shake.

"Hello, my friend," Éomer returned the greeting. He lowered his arms. The maiden released hold and lowered the blanket from her head. Háma's eyes fluttered to her but a moment, startled to see another with hair like his own, if but a deeper red, before he nodded and returned through the doors.

"I will announce you," said Háma.

"Thank you," said Éomer.

The Marshal turned to the maiden, who fixed the hair that had blown free. Her eyes had been soaking in the craftsmanship of the doors and posts of the golden hall's entrance, and even noting the way the guards stood at attention, so still and firm, but her eyes returned to him when he addressed her.

"I will speak with the King first. My absence has been notable and he will surely ask for its reason. Then I shall present you." He put a gloved hand on her shoulder. He spoke clearly and with a tone that demanded she carefully consider his advice, "When you stand before the King do not speak until a question is asked of you. Stand tall and speak the truth, for Rohirrim do not lie." The maiden listened and nodded delicately to his direction. Éomer, sure his advice was taken, continued with words of encouragement, "Though the king's health has been declining as of late, he remains a good and honorable man. He will take kindly to you, I have no doubt of this. Should your worth come into question, they and I will vouch for you," he said, speaking of Éothain and Guthwine. His voice lowered, "Your tale is known to us, my lady. May his good graces will find you worthy."

Éomer gave the maiden to Éothain's arm, to escort further. This exchange symbolized the maiden was no longer in his protection. On the plains of Rohan, his duty was to serve and protect the word, lands and peoples of the King. But in the city of Edoras, the King's word was his own and needed not the loose interpretation of Marshals. Éomer had done all he could for the unfortunate girl, who had gone through so much. What was to be decided with her was now in the hands of the King. Háma returned, and the doors were opened to them. They entered the golden hall.


	8. Gaining Good Graces

**Author's Note:**

**Whew! This was a very difficult chapter! Grima is a B**CH to write! Good god, to think that he'll be a constant character in this story... kill me. I wrote half of this chapter while on vacation. I wrote the second half today, adding a lot and changing a lot too. There is a few lines paraphrased from the book, concerning Meduseld and Grima's appearance. Theoden and Eowyn make their debut. yaaayyy.**

**One of Theoden's lines is taken from a verse in the Bible. See if you can find it.**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Gaining Good Graces**

The solid doors were opened to Éomer and his company. His Lieutenant escorted the red haired maiden and Guthwine followed behind. Éomer strode ahead, his footsteps long and confidant. The hall seemed dark compared to the waning light outside, but the hall was warm, heated by a great fire in the center of an intricate, woven mosaic floor of cream and red. The eyes adjusted to the dim light of fire and the sunbeams that fell here and there though the western windows, high under the deep eaves. Pillars stood evenly spaced across the hall, which was long and wide, and they were like arms that lifted the vaulted ceiling.

Guards and nobles sat or stood, watching their approach. Heavy were the boots of the men, soaked and muddied through the leather. Even the maiden's shoes clicked with an aching step. Though, Éothain felt the maiden's shivers dissipate, the warmth of the place banishing her chill. The chill lifted from them all as they passed a long, central hearth and it was gone entirely before they reached the raised platform, a dais rising on three steps. In the middle of the dais was a grand gilded throne.

On the heirloom chair of centuries of Kings, sat a man in robes of red, embroidery and draped with a coat of fine furs. A sword was at his side, and circlet of gold graced his wrinkled brow. Next to him sat a man of pale complexion, a shadow of a man. He peered at them and whispered in the King's ear. Éomer took the final steps forward and removed his helmet, bowing, he said,

"Hail, Théoden King!"

The eyes of the aged man glistened like the diamond on his crown. "Well met, Éomer," greeted Théoden.

Éomer stood tall, holding his helmet at his side. "My Lord, surely you wish to know the reason for my prolonged absence," Éomer assumed.

"Surely I do. Your guess is rightly thought," Théoden said. Concern touched his voice, "Erkenbrand came not two hours ago. He tends to his men now. They attacked a band of orcs that traveled east across the Mid Wold."

"Orcs?" Éomer growled. "Were any of ours hurt?

"No." Théoden continued, "Erkenbrand's thought was they meant to attack you, to wait for you on the return road to Edoras and kill you in the night. Their leader uttered words of revenge on your name before Erkenbrand removed his tongue and head."

Éomer gave a nod, a memory passing into his words, "If the orc had been one of stolen scales and decorated a necklace with teeth of Men, he escaped the night a village was attacked and burned in the East Wold village near the mouth of Entwash."

"Yes, the orc was the same," Théoden confirmed. "The fishing village of Entwash was attacked, you say?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The King's voice grew grim, "… Our losses?"

"Twenty five of the villagers fell to orkish blades, nine houses and the stable lost to fire, therein three horses burned without escape."

"Alas!" said the King, clenching his fist on his royal chair. He gave a thought a few moments, and then said to Éomer, "Thank the Valar you were there, Éomer, else the whole village may have been lost. How did you come in time?"

"We had been tracking them for two days. The village was the only destination to match their course, so we met them by circumventing the jagged outlands rather than travelling its treacherous rocks." Éomer shook his head. "We still lost too much time."

"And yet the village still stands, Éomer. We have that to be grateful for. To have lost Entwash entirely… weaken the fishing trade, I fear, more severely than we can afford."

Éomer bowed in appreciation of the King's gratitude.

There was a flutter of white, emerging from behind the golden pillars.

"Éomer! You've returned!" A woman fair of skin and a head of golden waves embraced the Marshal. She wore a dress as fresh as the snow outside.

"Hello, sister," Éomer greeted, returning the embrace with his free, gauntleted arm. "You greet me so warmly, Éowyn! And here I had the mind to stay away a while longer. But I see your wrath has waned."

Éowyn stepped back, abashed. "I am wrathful still!" She tugged at the cloth of his elbow, "I beg you, let me finish my work!"

"And let you ruin a perfectly decent shirt with your hatchet needlework? Nay, I say not!" he jested, with all the seriousness a brother could muster.

"Oohhh!" She scolded, slapping his armored shoulder. He pretended that it hurt. Théoden chuckled at their sibling bickery. It was then the Lady Éowyn saw the newcomer, who no longer wore the blanket around her. Éomer looked from the maiden to the King, who also had noticed the stranger in his hall.

"My Lord," Éomer said, "I would have remained in the village to further the repair, but fate had sent us an unexpected sparrow on its changing winds." Éomer held out his hand to the maiden and encouraged her to step forward. She took a breath, as one takes before a plunge into a river, and stepped forward, her heels softly clicking. Éowyn stepped aside and joined the King. The maiden stood before them, and would have been nervous save for Éomer's presence. The maiden took the skirts of her gown and spread them while bending her knee and head, a delicate curtsey, albeit a foreign one.

The King examined her with eyes that were kind, but also looked in admiration of her splendid appearance. "Only the winds of a tempest having blown from afar could bring a sparrow such as this, Éomer."

"Further than you know," said Éomer. The King looked at him. "The maiden does not hail from Middle-earth."

The man at the King's right hand stirred from his seat, and his presence returned to the awareness of the room. He spoke, "How may it be a sparrow, not from Middle-earth as you claim, fly hither on such small wings? The maiden that stands before us is as fresh as water from a spring. No traveler would cross land and sea adorning such finery and babuls of gold."

The Marshal answered, directing to the King and not the pale man, "Fresh water she is. It was the magic of Entspring that brought her here." Both the King and his advisor were surprised at these words. Théoden examined the maiden once more in the new light that was given. She returned his gaze, unflinching.

"What be your name, little sparrow?" asked the King.

The maiden's mouth dropped, her heart falling with it. She looked to Éomer and back to the King, with panic in her eyes. The pale man spoke coldly, "The Lord of Meduseld asked a question of you."

Éomer straightened. "She cannot answer."

"Does your stranger from beyond the borders of the world fail to learn the curtsies of ours?" the advisor hissed. "From the waters of Entspring she sprung, you claim. Let us recall the fate which befalls those who taste its cool brews."

"I too recalled the tales, Gríma. No fool am I," Éomer stiffened. He returned to the King, "She has a voice, my Lord, if only you would let her speak."

Théoden's gaze had remained on the maiden, watching her closely, to see what her face would tell. "Is this true, what Éomer says? Did magic bring you hence?"

She nodded, her hands cold again at her side. "I don't know how else to explain it, sir... I mean, your Highness," she corrected.

"Your 'Highness'?" Théoden chuckled.

Éomer stepped in, "Forgive her, my Lord. She has never before met a King."

"Nor has she ever stepped foot in the Mark, yet she speaks perfect Rohirric, save for a touch of foreign tongue to it," he smiled, for the maiden had amused him. The King quickly surmised, "A trait that was given from Entspring, I take it?" The maiden gave a nod. "I remember many tales as a child that spoke of the happenings of Entspring. Here is a new tale to tell. I should like to hear it." He bid the red haired girl to speak with a lift of his hand.

She thought a moment. Her eyes shifted though memory, choosing from where to start. "My family was on vacation," she began, besting a stutter. "It was the last weekend we had before my older sister would go back to Texas, so we wanted to spend time with her." She found her pace then, "We decided to go out on the town, have dinner at Le Cordon Bleu, and then end it big by going to Cirque du Soleil, which was on tour."

The maiden paused to explain the strange words. "Cirque du Soleil is a performance. It celebrates the human body by giving a show that requires the performers to pull feats that require an enormous amount of strength, dexterity and control. It's amazing to watch and see what the human body is capable of."

She paused again, and the fondness of the memory faded. "The curtains closed for the intermission… and that's when the explosion hit." Her voice quieted. "The backstage came apart, and… these… men all dressed in Kevlar and masks came out. We thought it was part of the show at first, but then they started… _shooting_ at the audience." Her voice was shaking now. "We were toward the back, so we got up to run out of the theatre, everyone was screaming, there was blood everywhere… but the doors were locked! We couldn't get out… we couldn't…"

She fell silent and spoke no more. Distraught was she, they knew. Her face seemed lost. Her eyes looked into the nightmare. Éomer put a hand on her shoulder. "If… I may continue her story?"

Théoden gave a solemn nod. "Of course." He had no desire for her torment herself further.

"On the third morning following the attack at Entwash, Guthwine returned from searching for Éothain's horse, with a boy whom was missing and presumed dead. They both claimed to have seen faces in the water of Entspring, that magic was afoot. They led forty of my company, and there the water was as a window, and we saw her story unfold."

The king nodded, noting again that it was magic. Éomer continued, "Cries of the dying flew on the wind's howl, and thunder and fire spout from the hands of those men. The black men came for them last, they alone standing in the darkness. First they slew the man who protected them, and then they slew her sisters."

Théoden leaned forward in his seat, and he asked with a quiet tone, "The man who protected you… your father?" The maiden met his eyes, and lowered them. "I see."

"The man in black mocked her," Éomer recalled, choosing words to not upset her even more. "But when he raised his hand to kill her with fire, she swore in the name of justice, stole the fire from his grip. Thunder rolled and the waters were shaken. When the waters cleared, smote were they, and her justice was done. Before despair took hold, a voice spoke in the darkness." Those who listened shifted. Éomer recited the voices' speech, "'Do not weep, Maiden of Earth, for I have come bringing news that your family may yet live.' The voice was bodiless and its words stirred the waters. It offered her a deal, and exchange for the family she so loved. Not to be deceived, she demanded the price be known, though her need was so dire. She was to lose her time, all that she had. She would be stricken from the hearts and minds of those she knew, her very existence and name erased forever."

Éomer gazed down at the maiden. A sense of respect welled up within him. "And though she knew this," he said, "that the price was so severe… she accepted. The waters of Entspring grew to the stars in a great tree of ice, and shattered asunder. The maiden you see before you stood on the ice, banished from her world and time and born into ours," he added, "into Rohan."

"Such courage…" Éowyn gasped, her eyes alight with a flame. Théoden 's laid a hand on Éowyn's, which had been resting on the arm of his chair. He held her hand for a while, rubbing her soft knuckles with his thumb. Deep in thought he was, pondering the tale that was now told. The maiden stood as though naked. This is how one felt when the darkest hour of one's life is made public. All had heard, everyone from Guthwine and Éothain, who had been there, to the noblemen in the hall that had gathered around, and the three that were on the dais, Gríma, Théoden, and the Lady Éowyn. A hush had settled the hall, naught but the crackling of the hearth.

Théoden spoke at last. "Was it courage, I wonder, that drives one to sacrifice?" He rose from his chair and descended. "Greater love hath no man than this. By these words, how far can love to one another extend? Even to the laying down of our lives for our brethren… was it courage? Which is of these be the highest instance of virtue among Men?" The King half spoke these thoughts aloud for all to hear, and half to himself. Théoden raised his hand and lifted the maiden's chin. "Do not burden your heart, little bird," Théoden comforted, "For you are welcome in my house. Now what is to be done? I will not send you away when you have naught elsewhere to go."

Gríma slid from his chair and came to the King's side, viewing the maiden though heavy lidded eyes. "My Lord, might I suggest," Gríma spoke, "a solution?" He continued without the King's assent. "Fate, it seems, has dealt her with cruelty and generosity, to render her kin safe passage from the gate of death, but leave her an orphaned refugee to lands anew… and it has delivered her here, to Meduseld, under a predetermined course. I agree, send her not away, to wander without station or aim. From Entspring she was brought forth, my Lord. Keep this token of fortune at your side, with her rich attire speaking of her higher standing, as a ward to your royal name."

The solution of the advisor seeped in, and the King likened to the notion. "Yes…" Théoden nodded and looked to Éomer, who had grown uncomfortable with Gríma's closeness to him. "Éomer, what say you?"

"She cannot return home, my Lord," he replied.

"No, I daresay she cannot." He said to the maiden, "My lady, you have captured the faith of Éomer and his Éored, who are renowned for their distrust of strangers. You are a stranger to Rohan no more." Théoden then proclaimed, "I vow that you shall have a place in my home and a seat at my table. Henceforth you shall be the Ward of the King, should you choose to accept this honor."

All eyes returned to the girl in the golden gown. Awoken, had she, from the shadow, for she had heard these things and rose from the depths of her mind. She found her voice again, and she spoke words the gathered persons did not expect.

"I will accept on one condition, my Lord," she said, so bold it was to say to a King.

The King was not taken aback by it, as the others were indeed. He merely rose his head a little higher and asked, "What is your condition?"

She took a breath and locked her green-blue eyes with his gentle ones. She said, "Give me a name… and promise me that only I will defend that name. I come to you with nothing. If something should happen… it will be no one's fault but mine."

"Prideful you are! Though not a trait common to women, it suits you and your fiery hair," he praised. "Very well my lady red, befriender of the distrusting, for that is what I shall name you. Réodwyn, a Lady of Rohan, who from this day forward shall defend her own name until she chooses another to do so."

The maiden spread her skirts again and bowed deeply, accepting the honor. The company of the hall gave a loud cheer. When she raised her head again, she gave Éomer a smile of true gratefulness, and he knew why, for he had kept his promise. She had found her name in Meduseld.

It was Réodwyn.

* * *

**Footnote****: **

**Réodwyn = red friend. It's a mix of Rohirric and Old English. It was the only name I could come up with that had a nice ring to it. **

**Theoden's line is taken from John 15:13, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."**

**- In Amber Clad**


	9. Two to One

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter took a while, due to a mixture of reasons. I had work, various other projects I've been working on, but also because I wasn't sure how to do this chapter. How do you move on past introductions... this is a transition point that can hurt a story if it's not done properly. This chapter is another long one, which I'm sure you guys are happy about. **

*** Please review, peeps! It lets me know how I'm doing, and may even give me incentive to write fasterrrrr...**

**Two new characters here, one is an OC chambermaid that I made up to suit my writing needs, but the other is a canon character from the books. yay!**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Two to One**

"Réodwyn," Éowyn said, smiling at the newly made ward. "Yes, a name most fitting." The maiden seemed pleased with it too, saying that it 'had a ring to it.' The white lady of Rohan guided Réodwyn though torch lit passageways in Meduseld. The King had dismissed them all so they may ready for the evening meal. Éomer had been caked in mud, up past the knee, and once the business had been concluded he had introduced his sister to Réodwyn and asked her to be led to the lady's bath.

"We'll have to find you fresh clothes…" Éowyn mused. "Though you're so small, a corset will have to make do… Haswig!" Éowyn caught a woman that strolled though a door, carrying a basket of sheets. The woman wore a brown dress with a red-sleeved bodice.

"Yes, my Lady?" asked Haswig.

"We are in need a fresh dress, one that would fit my companion. She has travelled far and has no change of clothes. Also, a bath needs to be readied, but I'll have another tend to it. Can you see to it?" Éowyn requested.

"A bath has already been heated, my Lady, for I was told we had a maiden guest arrive. … Travelling far in a dress like that?" She remarked. The chambermaid made quick note of Réodwyn's stature. "Yes, I can see to it, my Lady. Bless the Valar, has your hair caught fire or is it a trick of the torchlight?" She squinted. "Red hair? Fancy that…" she muttered and walked away. Éowyn shook her head and motioned Réodwyn to follow.

Réodwyn smirked, "I like her."

"Haswig?" Éowyn asked, taking a turn through an archway and down another hall with many doors.

"Mhm."

"We caught her in a fair temper. Her ill mood is easy to tell. Her eyes dart and she only grunts to reply," recounted Éowyn. "Ever since I can recall, she's been either quick mouthed or shut mouthed. She can turn discourse to gossip faster than a head could twist on its neck, but temperament aside, I would choose no other serving maid."

They stopped at the end of the hall, the last door, which was also the largest door, lead to the bathing room. They stepped down onto the wooden floor. The room was already warm from coals set beneath a large stone basin in the center of the room. The basin was almost square, and large enough to fit four people if they were to sit crossed legged, or if two were to lie down side by side. A pump lever spigot hung over one side, where the water would spill from a horses' mouth into the alcove tub. There was a partition in the corner of the room. It, like all other furniture and wall décor, was embellished with carvings of vines, horses, and a blazing sun. Tapestries clung to the wall, depicting scenes of heroism, dragons and white stallions. Éowyn showed Réodwyn the soaps and where the towels were kept. She set them down on the wide brim near the candles. She turned to leave the maiden to her privacy, but Réodwyn stopped her, politely asking for help to undo her dress and hair.

They tackled the hair first. It was so tight; Éowyn wondered how it had been done. She pulled a rose barrette of metal and crystals and many small "pins" from the bun, and unwound the hair. It fell long and waved down her back, reaching below her waist. Réodwyn pulled her hair aside and unspun the small braids while Éowyn undid the lacing of her dress. When they were unwound, Réodwyn thanked her, and Éowyn turned to leave, but stopped at the door.

"Réodwyn?" she called. The maiden took a moment to recognize her new name.

"Oh! Right." She jogged her memory and answered, "Hm?"

Éowyn had meant to say words of kindness to her, to console her for the story that had been told. However, the face she met was one of sweetness and tired eyes. The look of loss did not plague it, and Éowyn feared to mention anything at all. Instead, she smiled and left instruction, "Haswig will retrieve you in a quarter of an hour, and have you change, providing she found a suitable dress. See you at dinner, Réodwyn." Merely saying the maiden's name brought a smile to Réodwyn's face.

* * *

"What's he playing at? This is not of his normal games," Éothain growled. He leaned against the wall in Éomer's chambers. Both men were cleaned and dry, now dressing themselves for dinner. Éothain buckled his vambraces with twitching fingers.

Éomer shook his head. "I never thought he would extend favor beyond his own." He tied fresh boots on his feet. They were warm from having been kept inside. "You don't have to wear those, Éothain."

"I like wearing them," he brushed off the comment. "I never thought he would pay any favor to a woman but your sister." Éomer froze with a grimace. He tied the bow fiercely and set his elbows on his knees. He glared at the door. Éothain regretted his words, but followed them besides. "Though all turned out well enough for our little friend. All is well for us, too. I think I should sleep well tonight."

Éomer rose to his feet and fixed his sword to his side, the red leather strapped across his shoulder. "Somewhere there is a river near a house with a newly thatched roof. What I would give to dangle that worm in it for a fish to swallow." He and Éothain finished and left for the main hall.

The night had come, and only the fire and torches lighted the mead hall, and the candles placed on the table. The King sat at the head of the table, drinking and conversing with other noble men. Éomer's scanned the shadows of the room. Gríma Wormtongue, the royal advisor, was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike Gríma to be anywhere but the King's side. Éomer took a place near the other end of the table. Loaves of bread and bowls of dried fruit were already set. He smirked and took a few prunes to hide in his pouch.

"Are those for Firefoot?"

Réodwyn was behind him, her arms folded. The sleeves of her new dress cascaded from beneath a warm, woolen cloak. He lifted his finger to his lips, answering her question with the silent gesture of 'don't tell anyone.' "Are you still cold, my Lady?" he asked.

She made a face, a mixture of amusement and confusion. She motioned that he would look at her attire, "What do you think?"

"I think your hair is still wet."

Réodwyn responded, "Yours is too."

Éomer usually kept his hair in a half-ponytail, which made wearing a helmet less of a bother. When he was at home, he let his golden waves hang over his strong face. "Yes, it is," he replied.

Réodwyn ended it there, and took a seat across and to the side. She stared at the food at first, but then turned her ears to the many conversations over on the other side of the table. Éowyn joined them shortly, sitting next to her brother. She had missed him and wished to hear news of the surrounding settlements, and if he thought Spring would come early. The servants brought the main course, and poured fresh water or ale into their tankards. The King raised his drink and said words of thanks for the safe return of the Éored, and the meal began.

There was an older man at the table. There was a touch of grey in his trimmed goatee. This man was Erkenbrand, a rider of the Westfold now retired from his service as a soldier. He sat opposite from Éomer and they spoke at great length about the Orc with the necklace of teeth.

"Joined by a band of thirty Orcs, was he," said Erkenbrand. "They dug the ground to make hiding holes. Smart devils. Though not smart enough to hide their own stench. Our horses smelled them before we saw them, upwind of us they were. But we outnumbered them two to one, and on our steeds besides. They ran like roaches. But the toothen Orc, did he give us a fight!" Erkenbrand motioned with his hands, crossing blades with an imaginary foe. "One to three, he matched us. When all his own were dead, he still he would not join them. It took an arrow to his legs to down him. The leader he was, or so he boasted. And then he cursed your name, Éomer."

"What good that did him. He is dead and I yet live," Éomer said, chewing on a chicken leg.

"Aye," Erkenbrand said. "So why was it that he cursed you with his dying breath?"

Éomer recounted the events of Entwash. "Two days prior to your encounter with him, my Éored had destroyed his entire horde. The toothen Orc had chased the refugees, and slew a pregnant woman. I desired to give chase when he fled, but her husband begged me to stay to try and save her life. We could not, and nor could we save the child."

Erkenbrand was saddened by the new details. "I was glad to slay him when he hated you, my friend. Now I am gladdened all the more his filth was rid from Middle-earth!"

Éomer nodded, "As am I. Whenever I return to the village, I shall give the poor man the news that his wife was avenged."

"May it bring him peace," Erkenbrand prayed.

Éowyn joined the conversation, "What business brings you to Edoras, my Lord?" She had finished her meal and had listened eagerly to Erkenbrand's tale.

"Trade, my dear Lady," Erkenbrand replied. He took a bite of meat, chewed and swallowed and then said, "We bring fine furs and leathers from the Westfold. The coming spring has given us much wild game. Many herds of deer have returned to the lower plains."

"That doesn't make sense…"

"Hello. And who might this be? I've never seen you at this table before," Erkenbrand said, referring to the red haired maiden that had suddenly spoken out of turn. She appeared to have been pondering something.

"Réodwyn," she said her name proudly.

"Ha! A fitting name. Whoever gave it to you is gifted"

The maiden smiled and all laughed at the table. Erkenbrand looked about. "I feel as though I've missed something, but never mind. What does not make sense?" She had just taken a bite, and couldn't answer. "Take your time," he chuckled. She swallowed.

"It doesn't make sense," Réodwyn repeated.

"So you said, my Lady."

She held up her finger, "'Two to one'." She took a drink of water. "There were thirty of them… meaning you had sixty. I know there's 'safety in numbers,'" her words came out as if she were still pondering them "but isn't that a little overboard for transporting goods?"

Erkenbrand and Éomer exchanged a glance. Erkenbrand said, "These are dark days, my Lady. And though winter comes to a close, I feel the sun only growing colder. Our numbers protect us."

Réodwyn nodded. "Better safe than sorry?"

Erkenbrand smiled, "That is one way of putting it, I suppose. Are you feeling well, my Lady?" The question was justified. The maiden's eyes were half-lidded, and she clung to the blanket, as before.

"Hm? Oh… yeah, I'm just… tired," she said.

Éowyn rose from her seat and went around to Réodwyn side. "Come, I'll show you to your room. You have come far, and now that you have eaten, sleep will do you some good." Réodwyn gave a tired smile and rose from her seat to follow. The two young women exited the hall and went to their chambers.

Réodwyn went straight to the small bed that was centered to the wall. She plopped onto it with a sigh. Éowyn shut the door with both hands. She stood there, listening for anyone who might have followed… When she was sure, she turned and spoke with an almost urgency. "How did you know?"

"Mmn?" Réodwyn moaned, her face buried in the comforter.

Éowyn approached her and repeated her question, "You asked why they needed more men. How did you know that trade was not their purpose here?"

Réodwyn lifted her head, eyes seeming more tired than before. She attempted a shrug, but it looked like a wiggle since she was lying down. "He said they came to trade, though."

"That was a ruse. I see that now," Éowyn paced. "They're here for another reason. Orc attacks have been increasing. So many men at arms in Edoras… did my uncle call for this?"

"Éowyn?" Réodwyn called.

Éowyn ceased her pacing, "Yes?"

"I didn't want to ask earlier, because I didn't want to sound stupid, but…" she asked in an apprehensive tone, "What are Orcs?"

The white Lady was shocked. "Orcs… they…" she tried to answer, but she couldn't believe… "Have you no Orcs in your world?" The maiden shook her head timidly. Éowyn took a breath. "Orcs are… dark creatures. They are from the land of Mordor, and they wish nothing more than to destroy. They kill all life they come across. They despise beauty, abhor all that is good and green in the world."

Réodwyn considered her words. "Wakaindov werld didaiyend upin?" she spoke in Westron. "Goodnight, Lady Éowyn. I'm going to sleep now."

Éowyn nodded and turned for the door. "Goodnight, Lady Réodwyn." She shut the door behind her. She had many questions of her own, but they could wait for morning light.


	10. Things Amiss

**Author's Note:**

**I took the time in this chapter to give some foundations to Edoras. Edoras is going to be the main setting of this story, so it's important to breath some life into it. One thing I disliked about the movie was the whole city seemed so tiny compared to Minas Tirith. Yeah, Minas Tirith is really big, but Edoras is much bigger than just the top of the hill. There are hundreds of houses there, with hundreds of people.**

***** ****Concerning Westron:**** whenever Reodwyn speaks it, she's speaking english, no duh. But to differentiate it from all the other text, I just write it phonetically. If you read her lines aloud, just sound them out, and you can understand them! Example: **"Aiyam speekeng inninglish" = "I am speaking in english."** *****

**-In Amber Clad**

PS: I'll be going on vacation this weekend. I'll try to get another chapter up before I leave, but we'll see.

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**Chapter 10: Things Amiss**

It was a crisp morning. Droplets fell from icicles that clung to the roof, slowly melting in the morning sun. Edoras was a bustle with activity. The shops were open. The markets displayed their wares. Guards walked the wooden walls. There were few clouds this day. They seemed to sit in the sky. The wind was calmer, a mere breeze. The White Horse banners drooped on their poles.

Three men stood on the cobble stone trail, betwixt houses and shops on a slope that separated the upper and lower parts of the village. This was a quiet place. It was not a secret place. Anyone in the streets below could see them there, as they could see anyone approaching. However, it was quiet. No ears could pry their words. They could speak of anything their hearts desired, or what their minds feared, or of dark opinions they dare not elsewhere say aloud. This is where Éomer met companions he most trusted; Erkenbrand, and his Lieutenant Éothain. There was one that was missing, but the Prince of Rohan was far to the south, and would not return for some time. Éomer would send Erkenbrand as a dispatch to Théodred, for that was one of the many reasons Erkenbrand had come to Edoras.

They spoke in a normal tone, not fearing their words betray them to eavesdroppers. Anyone who was above them was too far to hear them, and anyone below was too far as well. The only people who could hear them were those who used the trail, and the three would merely pretend to speak of other things, such as the conditions needed for a perfect brew of mead. When the person was out of sight, they would continue their private discussion.

"There's been talk of strange folk abroad. They cloak themselves so none can tell they be man, elf, orc or goblin," Erkenbrand said.

"Is there more to this rumor?" Éomer asked.

Erkenbrand shrugged, "This one is new. Though… cloaked strangers? What have they to hide?"

"Their ugly faces," Éothain laughed.

"I've had my fill of rumors," Éomer said. "Let us hear of the Westfold."

Erkenbrand straightened and laid a hand on his tired sword. "More horses gone." The other two straightened as well. Erkenbrand said, "Two, taken, like the others. They always take the black ones. Always the black ones!"

Éomer crossed his arms and shook his head, "What do Orcs need of them? They never ride. Even if the sun beat their backs against the earth, they'd still choose foot over steed."

"I do not know. For evil purposes or pleasures, I fear either is the undoing of those poor beasts," Erkenbrand said.

"They grow bolder with every day." Éomer gazed out beyond the city walls to the horizon. So peaceful it was in the sun, and yet untold dangers roamed the land. "Erkenbrand."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"How soon can you depart without arousing suspicion?" Éomer asked.

Erkenbrand let out a breath though his nostrils. "A few days. Three at the least."

Éomer nodded. "Sell your wares and gather what supplies you need." He shook his head, "Sixty men… that girl was quick. If Wormtongue had been present…" He let go of the notion. "Théodred needs all the men he can get. The South is too open."

"That is why I am going," Erkenbrand said, easing Éomer's worry.

"I would add to your numbers, Erkenbrand," Éomer's eyes fell.

Erkenbrand put on a smile, "I know you would, my friend."

The older man knew Éomer's duty lie with Edoras now. He had been away for too long. The Riders went out to safeguard the plains, but on their return, they gave relief to the guards that manned their home city. To leave before giving his weary men and horses time to rest would only hinder Erkenbrand, or worse, not strengthen Théodred's Riders on the borders to the South.

Éomer reached into his pouch and retrieved a small parchment, folded and sealed with red wax. He handed it to Erkenbrand. "For Théodred," he said. Erkenbrand merely nodded and stashed it away.

"Dare I spy gold and rubies?" Éothain said, a light in his eyes. "Look, they wave at us, your sister and our little sparrow."

Down below in the streets, the two Ladies had spotted them. The men waved back and watched them disappear into the tailor's shop. The Lady Réodwyn had but one dress, and the loaned one she wore last night and again today. She was to be a Lady of Meduseld and her wardrobe was severely lacking. The tailor could have easily been summoned to the golden hall, but Éomer knew better. His sister would have this excuse to breathe fresh air, and be free of watchful, certain peoples…

The hair on Éomer's neck stood on end. He checked the corners of the houses and then looked to the top of the trail. The shadow of a man was not among those places. Éomer nerves could not be shaken, however. He gave his men a farewell nod and walked down the trail. Éothain and Erkenbrand remained there, talking of Spring, and the foods they missed that would soon grow green and tall in the fields.

This lower quarter of the village that faced east was where craftsman made their home. This was a place for leather workers, blacksmiths, jewelers, tailors, and carpenters. The fall of hammers on anvils could be heard through the open windows. Éomer passed underneath the wooden sign of the smithy's. The cobblestone was dry here, with the snow have been beaten away to the edges. He entered the plaza, where a group of women waited their turn to draw water from the well at its center. To the right was the sloping trail; to his left was the tailor's shop. He climbed the three stone steps onto the porch when a dark thing caught his eye.

Éomer exchanged a long, uninviting gaze with Wormtongue. The advisor had tried to hide behind wooden posts of the shop across the way, but now he was exposed to the Marshal's knowledge. Éomer had been right to follow his sister, though he wished there had been no need. He broke the exchange, knowing Gríma would come no closer, and entered the shop. His countenance brightened with the sight of the two young women. Several dresses and spools of fabric lay out on a table. They were example dresses, and a choice of colors. On the corner of the table, a piece of parchment noted the measurements of the red haired maiden.

The tailor held up a spool of pink brocade to Réodwyn's freckled face. "I think this one would look lovely on you, my Lady," he said. "Your skin tone is complimented by the rose."

"It should be lined with the cream," Éowyn added. "Would it not be exquisite, Éomer?" she addressed her brother. Réodwyn looked up to see him, and gave him a smile. He returned it with a small bow of his head. "Éomer?" Éowyn said, a slight scolding since he ignored her by looking over the fabrics on the table. Éomer touched a few and picked one up that had been pushed aside. He brought it over and compared it to Réodwyn's face.

"This one," he said, simply.

Éowyn looked at him incredulously, "Dark green with a light pink? You have no sense of taste."

"No, but common sense I do have," Éomer said, giving the fabric to the tailor. "This one is warmer. Thicker. Winter is not kind to Réodwyn. See if you can provide a cloak or two for her as well." The tailor nodded and added more notes to the parchment.

"Do you not cope well with the cold?" Éowyn asked the red head.

She shook her head, "No. It's a lot colder here than it was at home. You have snow! It never snows where I live." Réodwyn made a face, "… or _lived_."

The white lady was intrigued. "No snow? Far to the south your home must have been to have no snow. How warm it must be."

"I lived in the Sonoran Desert, so yeah. 'Warm' is an understatement," Réodwyn smirked. "Rohan is like… a cross between Colorado and North Dakota. No, more like Colorado…" She brightened with a sudden question, "Do you ever go sledding?"

"Sledding?" Éowyn was taken aback by the sudden change in subject. "Yes, but the snow has all but melted outside the city. Unless another storm blows in, we will not see more until next winter."

Réodwyn snapped her fingers, disappointed. She spoke in Westron, "Deyng, thadwudav binfun."

"Sledding seems a childish pursuit," Éowyn commented.

Réodwyn held up her hands, "Hey, if it's childish to have some fun, then I'm all for it. Aaugh. Now I have to wait a whole year."

"Spring shall not wait, I think. Let this pink dress be made for you, Réodwyn," Eowyn said, giving a challenging glace to her brother. "Perhaps you can wear it at the Spring Festival."

"I never said no," she replied, touching the fabric. "A spring festival… that sounds like fun too." Her voice trailed off and she had that look on her face again, the one that was deep in her mind, almost serious. She stepped to the table, in between both Éomer and Éowyn. She trailed her finger across the carved edges. "I look around, and everywhere I see so much work put into every single detail. The walls, the furniture, even the light fixtures with candles… all of it, I can just feel the culture and history here." She looked at them with a determined face, "I want to learn. There's only so much I can guess. Like, I know that your culture revolves around horses. There's pictures and carvings of them, on the flags." She looked at Éomer, "Even your helmet has a horse's head on it." Éomer nodded. Réodwyn made her request, "Can you teach me? About Rohan? And Middle-earth?"

Here was a woman who but two days ago would have had the head of a man in the name of justice. Now she stood timidly, as a child before her elders, as if asking for sweets. **"**What would you like to know?" Éomer asked.

Réodwyn answered, "Everything!" She then searched the walls, for something that seemed to be missing. "Do you have a map? I think learning the geography would be a good place to start."

They had returned to Meduseld and sat in the mead hall. Éomer had retrieved a map from his room and had unrolled it across the table. He pointed at various regions across the map, giving names of lands, mountains, and forests. The map was unfinished, with many places having no names, but Rohan, Gondor, and Mordor were etched in great detail. He pointed to a forest to the right of the Misty Mountains.

"This is where we found you. And here is the village we stopped in," he said, pointing near the mouth of Entwash that spilled from the edge of Fanghorn.

Reodwyn pointed to Edoras on the map, "And this is where we are now."

"Yes," Éomer confirmed.

"Are there any other cities like this in Rohan?"

Éomer shrugged, "Not the size of Edoras, no. The second largest town lies here in the Folde. That is Aldburg, where Éowyn and I were born." There was a tinge of both fondness and pain. That place held many memories for the two Rohirrim. "Aldburg was founded among the first settlements in the Rhovanion by Eorl the Young, and was to be our capital, until he moved the throne to Edoras. To this day, Aldburg remains a seat of noblemen."

Reodwyn's eyes went from dot to dot on the page. Many names of the villages and towns scattered across the region of Rohan. She pointed to a larger dot on the far East. "What's this one?"

"Helm's Deep," Éomer said. "That place is far older than Rohan. It has many names; Deeping Coomb, Fortress of Aglarond, and the Hornburg."

"It's a fortress?"

Éomer nodded. "The Deeping Walls have never been breached. It a stone stronghold that has as many victories as we have had wars."

The three sat at the table until the noon meal. Réodwyn listened inventively, asking many questions, but always waiting for their complete explanations before asking more. Éomer would have wearied from it, but the maiden's enthusiasm spurred him to teach with equal appreciation. He took pride in the knowledge he held of his own and neighboring lands, of places that even he had never ventured to. Truly, to teach was to find the boundaries of one's own learning.

The afternoon meal was served. Éomer rolled the map and was to put it away, but Réodwyn made a request. "Éomer, may I borrow that? I'd like to study it." Éomer consented and gave it to her. She excused herself and walked to her room. The blonde siblings sat together and began to eat.

"It is like teaching a child," Éowyn said, though fond was her tone.

"Nay," Éomer disagreed, "Did you not notice?" Éowyn gave him a questioning glance. "Réodwyn strikes me as a learned woman. She knows nothing of Middle-earth, yes in that way she is a child, but she listens, takes note. She's a thirsty sponge."

"And she sees things amiss," Éowyn remembered. The feel of the air tensed, and she leaned in. "Brother, why is Erkenbrand here with so many spears? I saw you speaking with him on the crossway." The man's shoulders barred and he gave her a stern look from behind his brows.

"Now is not the time, Éowyn," he said with warning, and his eyes flickered behind her. The lady froze. She did not have to turn to know what he saw. Éomer whispered, "If he dares…"

"He doesn't," she breathed. "He never comes close."

He sighed deeply, "If he does..." He scowled, and did not finish the sentence.

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**Thank you for reading. Please take the time to review! **

**-In Amber Clad**


	11. A Rare Treasure

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter is a bit more heartfelt one. It goes over some bonding time with a couple characters. Guthwine makes a return in this chapter. I miss writing that guy. haha. And before you ask, no, this is not when Theodred get's attacked at the Fords of Isen. The Fords are in the west, not the south where I have written him. This happens a full year before the Fellowship of the Ring. A lot of things still happen leading up to that point, and I'm going to explore as much of it as I can.**

**I'll be leaving tomorrow for vacaction. I'll have more chapters for you in a week. **

**- In Amber Clad**

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**Chapter 11: A Rare Treasure**

The sun shone through the eastern windows. It was nearly noon, and the Lady Réodwyn had not emerged from her chambers. Concerned, Éowyn had come and knocked on her door. A reply came through the door, so she went inside, and there she found Réodwyn curled under a heap of sheets. "Réodwyn?" gasped Éowyn, "Are you well? It is almost noon. I came to fetch you when you did not join us for breakfast."

The red head snapped up in bed. "I missed breakfast?" Her eyes were wide open now. "But Haswig came in like two minutes ago…" Réodwyn grunted, "There I go again. I'm sorry. I'm fine. I just fell back asleep. I'll get up now." She rolled to the edge and tossed her sheets aside. When she stood up, she gasped, "Eeee, its so cold in here!"

Éowyn wasn't sure whether to laugh at the girl or scold her. She decided that she would wait until Réodwyn noticed. A smile played on her lips and she watched the girl throw on the borrowed dress over her nightgown. The girl brushed her long hair quickly and washed her face from the water basin near the window. When the girl looked up, she saw what lay outside.

Réodwyn cried in delight, "It's snowing!"

Éowyn let out her contained laughter, "Haha, yes! It is snowing. But come! There is much for us to do today." Réodwyn grabbed her loaned coat and took Éowyn's extended hand. The two women ran out of the room, giggling and excited, but before they turned the corner, Réodwyn let go.

"Oh wait! I have to go pee!" she laughed and ran back.

Éowyn said, "Hurry!"

A few minutes later they ran as before, passing though the hall (with Réodwyn snatching a loaf of bread) and down the hill. It had been three days since the day at the tailor's. Each day, Éowyn lead the newcomer to a new place in the city. They explored the various districts, from the markets to the gardens. Éowyn would explain the history of the places, and introduce Réodwyn to the families that lived and worked there. Réodwyn was astonished how much the people loved the Lady Éowyn. All of them greeted her with utmost kindness and generosity.

Guthwine spotted them from the upstairs window of his house. He leaned out and called out to them, "Where are you off to, today?"

"It's a surprise!" Éowyn said as they trotted past, for they had run quite a ways. They were halfway down the hill now. Réodwyn gave a wave.

"I love surprises! Slow your pace that I may join you!" he called, and disappeared from the window and reappeared through the door a moment later. He jogged beside them. The walls of the city were near, and only when they reached the last few houses did they turn to the right. They walked though a narrow passage, catching their breath. The buildings were close enough here that the snow did not fall on them. They were forced into single file with Éowyn leading the way. The path opened to a wide area, a steep slope that emptied to an empty garden.

Children of the village played here. They slid down on wooden or leather made sleds over the fresh snow to reach the bottom. Guthwine smiled and said, "A surprise this is indeed! I did not know the White Lady enjoyed a good sledding."

"This surprise was not for you, nor me, Guthwine," Éowyn turned to Réodwyn. "It is for you. Here," she said, handing her a stiff leather skin with straps on either side. "One of the children had an extra one. Go on! Let us see you have some childish fun!"

Réodwyn beamed. She took the sled and sprinted to the edge, jumping wholeheartedly onto the snow. She cheered with joy, returning up the slope time after time. The children would race her and she would nearly win sometimes, and other times they would nearly win. It was all good fun, and Éowyn and Guthwine enjoyed watching her have it.

"I am happy that she has found friendship here," Guthwine said. "So vastly has her fortunes turned from ill to better. I am glad." Guthwine recalled with a slight wonder, "The night we found her, so cold and lost was she. She seemed under a spell, fraught with uncertainty over what she had done and what was to become of her. Now look at her, smiling as brightly as the summer sun."

Éowyn looked on, clutching her sleeves closer. "She has not spoken of it, of what happened. But she has asked to learn all that she can. I fill her day with doings and teachings in hopes it may give her refuge from dark thoughts. I wish someone had done the same for me…" Her thoughts wandered to her past. It was a tender place to go in her mind, as old as that memory was.

"Was Éomer not by your side?" Guthwine asked, knowing fully of what she spoke.

"He was," Éowyn said. "But he was just a boy."

Réodwyn trudged up the slope one last time. At the top, she collapsed onto the snow, breathing hard and still with a large smile across her face. "Whoo! I'm done." She offered the sled to them. "Anyone else for a go?"

Éowyn shook her head, "No thank you."

Guthwine, however, took the sled and ran for the edge. "I'll have a go!" he said, and jumped, much to the amusement of the two women.

Éowyn bent down and grabbed Réodwyn's hand again. "Quick! While he's not looking!"

"What?" was all Réodwyn could say, before she was pulled up and through the narrow walkway. Guthwine had reached the bottom and he saw them leaving him behind.

"Hey!" he called, but only received mischievous laughter from them before they disappeared.

The snow no longer fell. The sky was overcast and the day was even and bright. The two exited the narrow passage, but stopped before the street. Dozens of Riders passed them, fully cloaked in mail and bearing sharpened spears. These were Erkenbrand's men leaving the city.

"Is this Éomer's group?" Réodwyn asked.

"No, it is Erkenbrand's," replied Éowyn.

"I wonder where they're going."

"I cannot say…" Éowyn said, though she had her suspicions. The sight of the men's faces drove those suspicions to surface, and she could not contain them. "Do you remember me telling you of Orcs, Réodwyn? Yes?" Éowyn lowered her voice, "They go to fight them. Perhaps to help my cousin, Théodred, the King's son. He is away patrolling the southern borders."

"You mean, like how Éomer guards the Eastern?" Réodwyn asked.

"Théoden must have seen his son needed aid," Éowyn surmised.

"Théoden did not call for this," said Guthwine, who had caught up with them, "So please, I ask you, my Lady, speak no more of this!" he pleaded, his face and shoulders wrought with seriousness and fear.

"He does not know?" Éowyn asked, shocked.

"No. And he will not. I ask you, if you value Théodred's life, let this pass unbeknownst to him." He voice was desperate now. The joy they had felt minutes ago was gone. Réodwyn watched their exchange with confusion, but remained silent. This was a situation where questions did not belong. Éowyn fought with herself, with thoughts of her brother and the secrets he was keeping. She relented with a nod. Guthwine breathed a sigh of relief and thanked her. He bid them farewell and returned to his home.

Before he entered his house, he saw Éothain walking across the way. Guthwine fidgeted with his hands for a moment. He made up his mind and followed after him. "Eothain!" he called, and Eothain waited for him.

"What is it, Guthwine?" he asked.

"Have you seen Éomer? I need to speak with him."

"He tends to his horse at the stables. You seem out of breath, Guthwine," Éothain observed.

"Never mind that. Thank you," Guthwine said, and continued up the road. He took a few breaks in between, catching his breath, until he wondered why he was rushing. He walked the rest of the way and entered the grand stable. There were many horses here, fine and strong. He need not look for Firefoot and his chalky, grey back. The stallion was where he always stayed, at the end, near the King of the Mearas. To Guthwine's gratitude, Éomer was still there brushing Firefoot's hide. It was half past noon so there had been the possibility he had gone up to the hall to eat. "Éomer."

Éomer turned and greeted him, "Hello, Guthwine."

"She knows," Guthwine said in hush. "Your sister. She figured it out." As Guthwine expected, Éomer was not happy with this, but he did not seem surprised.

"Will she tell the King?" he asked apprehensively.

"No. I pleaded her not to."

Éomer looked at him, "Did she give you her word?"

Guthwine paused, "… No." But he added, "But your sister has honor. I feel she will not betray you until she speaks with you."

The marshal returned to brushing his horse. "That is what I am afraid of. I do not wish her to involve herself with tidings of battle."

"Éomer!" called a woman's voice from the entrance of the stable.

The marshal rolled his eyes, knowing his sister now come just as Guthwine had predicted. He gave Guthwine a glare, from which Guthwine shrunk and gave a sheepish shrug. He left for the exit and caught Réodwyn who had followed behind. It was her first time in the stables, so she looked around and took the place in to memory. "Care to join me for lunch, my Lady?" asked Guthwine. The red haired maiden hesitated for a moment, before replying,

"I wanted to say hello to Firefoot, but I'll be there in a second." Réodwyn joined the siblings in the pen. She looked to Éomer for permission to touch the horse, and he gave it with a nod. "Hello, Firefoot." The horse extended his nose to her hand, and she petted it. Satisfied, she turned to leave.

"No hello for me?" Éomer asked, teasing.

"Hi, Éomer!" she laughed, and left with Guthwine.

The blonde man shook his head, and then saw the look his sister was giving him. "I know what it is you will ask," he said before her.

"Then you know why I wish to ask it," she said. "Tell me, Éomer, is Théodred in danger? Is the south so dire in need of sixty more spears to be sent in secret?"

"I will not involve you in this," he warned. He felt Firefoot become uneasy beneath his caring hands. "Leave. You are bothering my horse."

"Nor will you involve the King?" she asked, ignoring his request. Her hands were stiff at her side. "Do you not trust your own kin?"

Éomer knew the duplicity of her accusation. "Do you trust me, Éowyn?" Éomer said with a flash of his eyes.

She was taken aback by his question. Her face fell from her previous determination to a face of open truth. Éowyn said in a whisper, "Yes… I trust you, brother."

Éomer took his hands from grooming and placed them on Éowyn's trembling face. Her skin was soft and fair. "My fair sister," he said, calming her. "My beloved sister. I do this for Théoden. I do this for Théodred. And I do it for you. Please," he said, his voice tender and deep, "Your trust is all I have." He wiped a tear from escaping her eye, and she tried to smile. "There. There you are, that smile," he said.

She smiled for him. It was a rare smile. She smiled and laughed in public, but they were not real. Long years it had been since the dark days that took their father and mother from them, since Théoden had taken them in. Now and then, though, Éowyn would smile a true smile for her brother, and he treasured it dearly.


	12. To Safe Returns

**Author's Note:**

**I've been listening to the Skyrim soundtrack... God I love it so much. **

**This chapter was going to be extended a bit, but I decided to just make that extension an entire other chapter. ****You guys have been waiting for a week.** Besides, according to word count, this is one of my longer chapters anyway...

**Thanks to those who reviewed. I'm glad Chapter 11 was well recieved. It's one of my favorite chapters so far. **

**- In Amber Clad**

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**Chapter 12: To Safe Returns**

The days grew colder. It was the last breath of Winter, Éowyn had said, before giving in to Spring. The snow and icicles clung to the ground and roofs. Réodwyn received her new clothes, complete with woolen coats and leather gloves, as well as soft boots for her feet. Her chills diminished beneath the warm, beautiful bundles of cloth and fur. She wore all of it, always, unless she was inside as they were now, and then she would remove her hood and gloves. Éowyn inquired further about her home, of the desert where she once lived. Éowyn had never travelled beyond Rohan's borders, and had seen little more than the plains, forests, and mountainous terrain.

Réodwyn told of the Sun that blazed ever so more fiercely than a fire, and that scarcely a cloud would hide it or the pale blue sky. She said she lived in a valley, much like Edoras, but there were few hills and grasses, but many dry shrubberies, enormous red rocks and strange plants called cacti. She told them of the great canal system that ran water through the city from the mountains, a man made channel river. Éomer was there too, listening to her describe her home. There was a fondness there, the same fondness that Éomer had in his own voice when he had told her of Edoras during their journey now three weeks ago.

"It never rains there either?" Éowyn asked. She remembered how the snow had excited the maiden, who barely knew it.

Réodwyn shook her head. "Barely ever. We get some during January, very light rains, and then we have the Monsoon season in July. The storms are pretty fierce, enough to topple trees sometimes. We call them 'micro bursts'." She smirked, "It's funny. Most other states get so much rain, they get so happy to see the sun. But us, we see so much sun, we get happy to see the rain. Oh, and the smell! There's nothing like desert rain. Its not just wet dirt, but we have this bush called a Creosote plant, and when the leaves get wet, there's this oil in the leaves that makes such an amazing aroma… the whole desert is filled with them so every time it rains, it just smells wonderful! I always wished someone would make a perfume to smell like that."

"Quite the aroma to garner such praise," said a sly voice that slithered from behind the pillars. "What a shame you shall never again smell its sweetness."

Réodwyn jumped in her seat at the table. "Whoa!" she exclaimed. The others at the table shared her surprise, but she did not share their dread. "Where did you come from?" she asked, moving so she could guess that he had been standing behind the pillars.

"I seems I have disturbed you, Lady Réodwyn," Gríma said, though his voice did not convey the apology of the words. "I have been listening for some time."

"No kidding! You have some serious ninja skills. Bravo," she complimented. "But if you wanted to listen you could have joined us." Both Éomer and Éowyn bristled, though the maiden did not seem to notice.

Gríma's pale eyes shifted, as if considering the offer, but he chose instead to say, "An invitation I shall decline, my Lady. My attentions are required elsewhere." He gave a slight bow and receded into the hall. Éomer watched him until he was out of sight.

Réodwyn leaned toward her companions with squinted eyes. She whispered, "That guy's a _creeper_."

The tension between them all lessened. Éowyn stifled a giggle and Éomer looked at the ward incredulously. "Careful, my Lady. Such words could be heard by the wrong sort of people," he advised. "And Gríma is no one to be made an enemy."

Réodwyn folded her arms further into her sleeves. "Politics, huh?" She looked back to the place where Gríma had spooked her. "So the game of thrones is played here too? Where's Tyrion Lannester when you need him?" She returned her comments to them. "Don't worry. I don't really have anything against him. Anyways, if I was going to really insult him, I wouldn't say it in Rohirric."

Éomer raised his brow, "He speaks Westron."

Réodwyn's lips flattened, "Spanish then."

"Ha!" Éomer said, giving Réodwyn the victory. Now that was a language Gríma surely did not know, and neither did Éowyn, who asked,

"Spanish?"

Réodwyn explained the nature of the language coming from a neighboring country. She described how the people of the other country had begun to intermingle with theirs, and their language was becoming a part of her own culture. It only made sense, she said, to learn a language that would become commonplace as the years went by. Éowyn likened it to the usage of Westron in the land of Rohan. Not all Rohirrim knew it, but it was essential as part of trade and dealings with other Men. It was the Common Tongue, and was used even by other races. Réodwyn inquired to what she meant by 'other races' and assumed she meant other Men. To their shock, they found that Réodwyn had never thought Elves and Dwarves to exist, or rather, they did not exist in her world save for old fairy tails and legends.

This gave birth to a whole other line of education on her part. They told her the beauty and wisdom of the Elves, and the greed and craftsmanship of the Dwarves. Even before, Réodwyn had assumed that Orcs were merely evil men and not a race of their own. Éomer was particularly detailed in their description, even going as far to speak of the immense fear and hatred all good peoples shared of them. He also told her that it was Orcs that had attacked the Entwash village they had visited, and the new pieces fit together in her memory.

"All those burnt corpses…" she said.

"Dead Orcs. Slain by my company," Éomer informed. She quieted, and put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were distant. Éomer could see she was sifting through memory again, and that sparked a memory of his own. "When we stood by the lake, during that time, I had asked what troubled you. You said, 'nothing compared to them'."

Réodwyn lifted her head, the memory returning. She fiddled with the tip of her sleeve. She said, her brows knitted, "The boy's father died."

Éomer nodded solemnly. Yes, it made sense now. The determination that had risen up in her then… it must have been born from the knowledge that her own family was alive. _How could she despair when others lost what she had saved?_ He thought. "My dear Lady," he said, acknowledging her fortitude, "There is strength in you yet."

Éowyn looked from Réodwyn to Éomer, lost in the topic at hand. She did not grasp the depth of their words since she had not been there. Éomer shook his head, bidding her to not ask. Éowyn was about to protest, but the sound of many horns blew beyond the doors of Meduseld. Éowyn's eyes brightened and she exclaimed knowingly,

"Théodred!"

The blonde woman leapt from her chair and rushed outside. Éomer followed behind her with his measured gait, and Réodwyn fought with her skirts to escape the bench before catching up to him. The horns continued to sound, and all of Edoras stirred from their homes to watch the Prince return with his Éored, home at last from his long absence. The familiar thunder of horses could be heard growing steadily louder. Réodwyn joined Éowyn on the terrace, and Éomer descended the stone stairs to await them on the snowy lawn.

A final horn blew, and it blew from the mouth of the Prince himself. They rose into view, Théodred at the head on a fine, chestnut stallion. He trotted triumphantly to Éomer, where he dismounted. He stood proudly, without his helmet, in shining mail and green armor. The pant of the horses created puffs of fog. Théodred patted his horse and then greeted his friend warmly, "Éomer!" The two men gave a cheerful embrace, and then grasped each others forearms. Éomer leaned to him and whispered a question,

"Were any of ours lost?"

Théodred smiled, "None! Thanks to you, my friend." Grateful, he gave Éomer a solid pat on his shoulder. A member of the King's Guard took the reigns of Théodred's horse and led it away to the stable. Théodred walked with open arms. "Éowyn, my sweet cousin!" The woman leapt into his welcome, her long golden waves flying in the wind.

"Théodred! So happy I am to see you!"

"As I am with you. But come! Where is my father?" Théodred asked. He searched the faces on the terrace and stairs, but did not see the King.

"Inside," answered Háma, the Captain of the King's Guard, from atop the terrace. "Welcome home, my Prince."

"Thank you, Háma," Théodred said. He took Éowyn's arm and led her up the stairs. The King's Guard bowed as he passed, for he was royalty, but also loved by his people. The Prince stopped abruptly at the sight of Réodwyn, who quietly had stood near Háma. "Bless the Valar, Háma, is this a relative of yours?"

"Nay, my Lord," he said. "She is the Lady Réodwyn, Ward to the King."

The Prince reviewed her and said, "Ward, you say? How much has happened since I left! Forgive me my Lady. I must be brief. I am Théodred, son of Théoden King, whom with I must speak. I shall properly meet you later." He gave a slight bow, to which Réodwyn returned with a practiced curtsy, one that she had learned from Éowyn in the ways of Rohirric tradition. Théodred went to the door and entered the golden hall. All others followed afterwards.

The long hall welcomed its Prince. The nobles that were inside bowed. The King sat on his throne, but rose and came to meet his son. They embraced and immediately spoke welcomes.

"Let us drink tonight!" said the King to the Hall. "My son is home, safe and proud! Bring us food and mead and good company. Come, my son. Unless there are matters that cannot wait, which I tell from your face there are none, the report of your outing may be told on the morrow."

"Indeed, father," Théodred said gladly, "It can wait."

Meduseld held host to a welcome celebration. It was done as instructed. The sun waned and the fires were lit. Food was prepared and a pig roasted over the central hearth. Large barrels were rolled into the hall and set upon chest high stands to better dispense the honeyed drink within. Tables were set, and tankards were given to all that attended. The men and women returned fresh, clean and ready, wearing comfortable finery. Éomer changed to pale tunic, complete with a red, embroidered skirting across his waist. The Prince changed from his armor to a black tunic likened to the robes of his father, who wore a grey blue, long tunic. They stood on either side of the throne, with the Prince to the King's right hand.

Éowyn bid Réodwyn to stand beside her, as she would present the ceremonial cup to the King. All in attendance stood up, drinks in hand, when the Ladies of Meduseld took their place before Théoden. Éowyn stepped forward, the room in quiet, and presented the chalice to the King. He took it in hand and raised it in front of him. He said the toast,

"To safe returns."

The hall gave a cheer and they all drank together. Music began to play. The hall lifted high in spirits.


	13. High Spirits

**Author's Note:**

**This was a fun chapter. I'll have you all know that I wrote it while drinking mead. Yup. Mead. It seemed appropriate while writing a scene where everyone of these characters is drinking it too. lol**

**A tid bit of more plotty goodness here. If you happen to catch them, there's some subtle plot points here too.**

**Please review!**

**- In Amber Clad**

* * *

**Chapter 13: High Spirits**

Bards sang songs of merriment and played on gilded lyres. The tables were lined with food and the pig roast turned over the pit, its juices falling into the fire with a delicious sizzle. There was people sitting, standing, in corners and among the open spaces. Not a single spot was empty from the laughter and entertained talk of the Rohirrim. The mead hall had not met its full use in quite some time.

Many years ago, it would be filled many nights of the week. Rohan was prosperous and enjoyed many seasons of relative peace. Four years ago, the health of the King began to dwindle, and the land of Rohan dwindled with him. The winters became longer. Crops were lessened due to the shorter summers and although the people did not starve, the strain was grasping at their will and morale. Among these things, Orcs found their way into the plains. The King would ride out less and less with his Éored, as he was the First Marshal of the Mark. His health had steadily declined, and so he remained at Edoras. Then he ceased his patrols altogether, leaving the protection of his lands to his son Théodred and to his nephew Éomer, the Second and Third Marshals respectively.

Since the King no longer ventured from the Golden Hall, he no longer saw his people. He no longer saw the failing crops. He no longer saw the increase of Orcs, and the bloodshed thereafter. Since he no longer saw these things, Théoden did not understand the need to strengthen his borders or to increase the amount of Riders to protect them. And because he could only hear the reports of his men, he became wary of those he could not meet. Strangers in the land of Rohan were no longer welcome. All who travelled though the Gap of Rohan, though the plains or merely to visit or trade were barred away, unless they came to Théoden to ask his leave.

The King came to rely heavily on Éowyn. When she was not away, tending to the people or to herself, she was tending to him. She was at his side, answering to his beck and call. When she was not at his side, another took her place. A shadow of a man named Gríma. As the years went by, Théoden regarded Gríma as highly as Éowyn for his helpful words and insight. Although Gríma was uncomfortable among crowds, he was there, ever by the King in this night of celebration.

"It has been many weeks since I last saw the King laugh. Look at him. The wrinkles of his eyes could fold no further!" Éowyn said. She had her arm wrapped in Théodred's, not letting him leave her sight. She had missed her cousin.

Théodred agreed. "Yes, he looks happy. I wish Gríma would lighten with him."

"Moths would mistake him for the moon," Éomer scoffed. "Although I share your wish that he be ill." The friends laughed at his jest.

Réodwyn smirked, "Hey now. Didn't you tell me earlier not to insult him?"

Éomer replied, "Wormtongue holds no power over me. What would he do? Hiss at me?" He took a swig from his tankard.

"He could challenge you," Théodred mused. "Imagine the absurdity. Gríma in a duel." Éomer almost choked on his mead. "Careful, now, cousin! You don't want to give the man an advantage over you! Quickly, Gríma, while he's buckled down from mead in his windpipe!" Théodred illustrated an imaginary duel, "That's it. All you have to do is lift the sword off the ground and swing it… No, no, use the other end! Have you been drinking too? Oh, the Valar…" Théodred could not continue. He grasped his sides in laughter. "Ah, I think the mead has finally gotten to me. Haha. Just listen to me, how ridiculous."

"Nay, nay! Keep on!" Éowyn said, trying to regain her composure.

"I cannot!" Théodred said, catching his breath. "The thought of him holding a sword, hahaha!" He burst into laughter again.

"Looks like he's having a good time," Réodwyn said to Éomer, amused.

"He is at that," Éomer said. "What say you, Théodred, are you keen for another round?"

"Only if our new Lady joins us," Théodred said, raising his drink to Réodwyn. "Join us to the tap, my Lady. Drinks…" he paused, checking his balance, "are on me." He put his hand on his chest, and looked at her expectantly. Though his offer was not an offer at all, since the feast was on the house.

Réodwyn waved her free hand, "Oh no. I'm done. I'm good."

"But you've only had one!"

"Yeah, I know…" she said, pouting her lip, "I'm a lightweight. You go ahead though. I'm going to wait for this to wear off before having another."

Théodred frowned, "Suit yourself then." He raised his tankard again and grabbed Éomer. Éomer half carried the Prince to the tap near the tables. The two Ladies watched them disappear into the crowd. Réodwyn came up to Éowyn and laid her forehead on the blonde's shoulder.

"Éowyn?" Réodwyn asked.

"Yes?" Éowyn looked down on the head of red hair.

"I feel it now," she giggled. The alcohol had seeped into through her system.

"On one serving?" Éowyn half disbelieved the girl.

Réodwyn raised her head and she had a large grin on her face. "Yup. I'm in a happy place. How about you? You there yet?" Éowyn looked at her tankard, which was nearly empty. She frowned, thinking perhaps she should have asked them to fill it for her.

"No," she said. "Well, maybe. I've had more than you, at least. What is this? You still have some left!"

Réodwyn shrugged, "More for me to enjoy." She looked into it. "You know, I like mead a lot better than beer or wine. I could never get used to those. But I could drink White Russians and Manhattans… those were amazing."

The men returned with another beside them before Éowyn could inquire after the drinks the red head had mentioned. Éothain joined them, adding to the smiles. "I think our friend over there has drowned himself in mead. Poor man! He misses mead more than is own wife!"

"Who?" Réodwyn asked.

"Over there," Éothain pointed to the tables near the hearth. A larger man sat there that wore a most impressive beard.

"Well, if it isn't Duck's Bane!" she smiled.

Éothain and Éomer exchanged large grins. Éomer shook his head, "I cannot believe you remember that."

Théodred and Éowyn exchanged a look of their own. Théodred asked, confused, "Duck's Bane? Is that a new one?" To satisfy his curiosity, Éothain and Éomer recounted the night where the Éored had sat around the fire, eating soup and duck. The Prince was humored all the more.

"So this is the blueberry mead I've heard of," Éothain exclaimed, having taken a few gulps. "The tartness of it, I did not expect."

Réodwyn lit up. "Blueberry mead? Can I try?"

Éomer, who was closer, leant her his tankard. She took a sip and handed it back. Her face fell after letting the taste roll over her tongue. "Aww… that one is so much better. I'll have that one next time."

Éomer smirked, "Or we could find you one with onions brewed in it." The faces of all with him turned to disgust.

"Eeeww, no!" Réodwyn said, "You make that here?"

"Why? Do you want us to?" Éomer teased.

"Onions!" Éowyn said, "What a ghastly ingredient to honey wine."

Réodwyn said to Éomer, "I like to eat onions, not drink them!"

"You are fond of them are you not?" Éomer asked.

Éowyn slapped Éomer's arm. "Quit teasing the poor girl!"

"How can I not? She makes it so easy," Éomer confessed.

Réodwyn's face went blank, "You were teasing?" She snapped her fingers, realizing the alcohol was affecting her wits. She buried her face in Éowyn's shoulder, laughing at herself.

Théodred asks, "Aren't you rather warm in all that?" He was referring to her layered dress. She wore more clothes than most, even without her thick coat. It was warmer than usual in the Hall tonight, with so many bodies close together.

Réodwyn grinned and said, "You obviously don't know me very well."

Éomer repeated Réodwyn's words, "Théodred, you obviously do not know her very well."

Théodred looked between them, noting they had known each other longer. He agreed, "… Obviously."

Éothain suddenly remembered news he was to give to his Marshal. "Oh yes! Éomer, my Lord, all is set for tomorrow. And the horses couldn't be happier."

"Good!" Éomer replied. "Now fill your stomach while you can."

Éothain laughed, "Like Duck's Bane!" He raised his drink and left in good humor.

"You leave so soon?" Théodred asked, disappointed. "I've just gotten here naught this afternoon."

"I was overdue to return to Edoras," Éomer said, "Now I am overdue to patrol. If you had retuned a day sooner I would have liked to have enjoyed a ride to the river."

"Next time, I suppose," Théodred clinked his tankard against Éomer's making a promise for the next they met. "Where will you go?"

"I shall return to the village at Entwash. I wish to see how the people fair," Éomer said.

"Entwash? Isn't that where…?" Théodred began to ask, but Éomer shot him a warning glance. Théodred saw Réodwyn holding Éowyn's arm tightly. Although Théodred had thought the red haired maiden might shrink from the topic, she added to it by asking,

"Say hi to Earthang for me."

Éomer too had thought she would not speak, so he paused before nodding. "I shall, my Lady."

Not two tables from them, an older man named Gamling stood by the King. He voice was full of concern when he asked, "My Lord! Are you feeling well?" The group turned at this, and saw Théoden had spilled his tankard on the wooden table, its golden contents dripping to the floor.

"Yes, of course," Théoden brushed the question as if it were rude. "Though I think I shall retire. Gamling," he said, giving the man a nod. The King strode away to the door, saying farewells to the joy givers as he passed. There was carefulness to his step, from tiredness or mead, one could not say.

Réodwyn spoke up amongst them, who had grown quiet while watching. "I think he has the right idea. I'll go to bed too." She set her tankard down on the table behind her. Éomer did the same.

"I'll escort you," he said. He offered his arm and she took it gladly. Her step was unsure. Réodwyn said goodnight to the others and let Éomer guide her through the crowd. They reached the inner hallway to find it clogged with people as well. They were quieter, but having just as good a time as those in the main hall. That is, until a dispute arose between two men. It immediately broke into a fist fight. Éomer positioned Réodwyn behind him when one of them stammered backwards toward them. He caught the man and pushed him back into the fight. He looked back at Réodwyn and said, "And this is why I escorted you. Excuse me." Éomer barged in to break up the fight. The two who were involved only heated more, and would find ways even with an intimidating example of a man like Éomer between them. Réodwyn shrunk away and found her back was to a door. She opened it and found herself outside in the night air.

She folded her arms against the cold that met her. The air was dry save for the breath that escaped her. Lights could be seen sparkling from torches down the hill, from homes all celebrating along with Meduseld. The wind still blew, even at night. It drew her skirts to play around her legs. The flapping noise could be heard along with the dulled laughter and cheers (from the fight inside she guessed). Then she noticed her clothes were not the only clothes creating sound. She looked to her left and found she was not alone. It was difficult to make him out since he was dressed in black. Only the face of Wormtongue was visible in the moonlight, pale and white as the light it was given. He had noticed her too, and hastily fastened and put away a small flask in his fine robes.

"Stashing away some mead for tomorrow?" she smirked.

Gríma did not answer. His eyes looked at her, and he stood as though he were a deer listening for predators. "Yes…" he finally said.

The door opened behind her and Éomer came through. Gríma turned and briskly walked away. "There you are," Éomer said. There was a spill on his sleeve, most likely from one of the drunken men, but otherwise not a scratch or bruise was on him. Then Éomer saw Gríma, his robes billowing behind him. Éomer's upper lip twitched. "Come," he offered, "Before you catch cold."

Gazing out to the stars, she said in Westron under her breath, "Liddel dippur?"

Intrigued, Éomer stepped beside her and followed to where her eyes fell in the heavens. It fell onto a small constellation of seven stars. " 'Little Dipper'?" he asked, having translated her words.

She looked at him and then back to the constellation. "Yeah..."

Éomer nodded. He supposed it did look like a ladle. "You know those stars?" he asked. The maiden nodded. Éomer returned his eyes to the walls of Meduseld. He found Wormtongue had vanished from his sight. Unease beset his stomach. He shifted on his feet and set his hand on the pillar. He took a moment before saying, "Réodwyn, may I ask something of you?"

She broke her gaze from the heavens and met his face to see his furrowed brows. "Sure," she said, seeing he was quite serious.

Éomer hesitated, but knew he must continue since he had already spoken. "Would you watch over my sister?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The maiden's face grew concerned. She said, "Yes, of course. But why?" She saw Éomer's eyes flicker to the empty shadows. Her head lifted higher on her shoulders, understanding. "You don't like him."

"I don't _trust_ him," he corrected. "Would you, Réodwyn?" His eyes betrayed his deep concern for his sister, "You can go with her where Théodred cannot. I am to be away for many days, if not weeks. Éowyn only braves to be alone for the sake of Théoden, but Théoden does not see her distain." Réodwyn hushed him with a hand to his shoulder and a smile.

"Éomer, I already said yes. It's okay."

The tall, blonde man relaxed and drew a sigh of relief. He had not wished to burden her with his troubles, but Gríma unnerved him with every sighting. He let his hand fall from the pillar to his side. He said with a newfound calmness, "Thank you, Réodwyn."

"You're welcome," she said, folding her arms again with a shiver. "Come on. It's cold out here."

They went inside. He escorted her to her room and she went to bed. Éomer returned to the hall, and drank. His heart was now content in the knowledge that his sister would be looked after. He gave a silent toast to the Valar. He thanked them for bringing Réodwyn to Rohan.


	14. A Flower in Low Relief

**Author's Note:**

**Heeeyyyy... hi, uhh... Been a while. Sorry about that. I've been pretty busy lately, namely because of the holiday season, my job, and going on vacation. Oh yeah and you can blame my sister for not playing enough Skyrim. Watching her play inspires me to write this fic. I'm watching her right now, actually. **

**A few things. I brought in some doggies. I noticed during the Return of the King, they have large Wolf Hounds (I think) in the background, and from what I know of my art history, royal houses always have their loyal pets. hehe. I don't remember why I named them those names though. I wrote the first half quite a while ago now. Also, I gave the little town of Entwash a name. It's called "Wickburne." I looked up some old english town names and it made sense. "Wick" means "Dwelling/Farm" and "Burne" means "stream/spring". Sooo.. it's a farming town near a stream. Makes sense. Yup. **

**Now back to the story,**  
**-In Amber Clad**

* * *

A flower.

It was small, and yellow. It had sprung from the snow on the hilltop and peeked out like a little girl behind a curtain. It was the first daisy of Spring. Éomer had noticed it from atop Firefoot as he waited for the rest of his Éored to mount up. A small desire to pick it up played with Éomer's lips, a fleeting smile from the thought of giving it to Éowyn. He had often given his sister flowers when he was small, and she would weave them into her hair. She had long grown too old for such things. She considered it childish now. He wondered if the Réodwyn would think differently.

A whinny from the horses awoke him to the world again. A few men had still not joined them, but he knew they waited near the city gate. He put on his helmet and adjusted his weight. Departure was soon. There was only one last thing. He looked to the terrace of Meduseld, and there she was. Éowyn raised her hand, white sleeve blowing in the wind, and waved farewell. Réodwyn joined her there and waved as well. Éomer waved his own farewell. At that, Éomer gave the order and Éothain blew his horn. The Éored rode down the hill, spears pointing to the sky.

The two Ladies of Meduseld watched them go. Réodwyn clutched her cloak closely to her. The morning air woke her body from early morning somnolence.

"Glad I woke you?" Éowyn asked her.

Réodwyn blinked and made a lazy smile. "Yeah."

"Want some breakfast?" Eowyn asked her.

"Yeah."

They went inside and found some food. They ate wheat buns and honey butter, Réodwyn quietly so because of her sleepiness, but Éowyn ate quietly for another reason. Her head pounded and her stomach did not sit well. A maidservant brought her a small pot and a clean cup. It was filled with a hot brew and the scent wafted across the table. Réodwyn gasped. "What is that?" she asked, but merely so Éowyn would confirm her suspicion.

Éowyn touched the cup to test the heat before the question registered in her mind. "Oh," she said, "it's tea. A remedy blend for headaches."

"You have a hangover? How much did you drink after I left?" Réodwyn teased. "But you have tea?" she asked with genuine interest. "I haven't had tea in weeks. I used to drink it almost every day! Can I have some too?" Éowyn filled Réodwyn's newly emptied cup and they shared the pot. The warmth filled their insides, banishing Réodwyn's morning chills and Éowyn's head pains. Réodwyn let the flavor wash over her tongue, and she gazed through the walls, thinking. "It sort of reminds me of an inglish brekfusti, but not as fruity," she mused, half switching to Westron. "It's a black tea though. The ka feen should help with your headache."

"It is not oft I drink more than I can fill," Éowyn said. She massaged her forehead with her soft fingers. "Perhaps I did not eat enough?"

"Possible," Réodwyn agreed. "Or maybe you didn't drink enough water."

Éowyn nodded, then shook her head. "I wonder if Théodred suffers worse than I?"

Réodwyn laughed. "Oh, he was far gone when I left. Haha. How late did you guys stay up?"

"Too late," Éowyn answered.

"Mm."

"I think I fancy a good long ride." Éowyn poured the last of the tea into the cups. She suggested, " You should come with me."

Réodwyn shrugged. "Sure. As long as we don't ride for too long. I was bruised for a week after I got here. I've never ridden side saddle before."

"Side saddle? Yes, of course. Your dress…" Éowyn remembered then that the golden gown the red head had worn, although not a riding dress it was wide skirted enough to allow her to have ridden astride. "No, now that I think of it, you do not have a riding dress. We shall have to arrange one be made for you."

"Another dress?" She asked. Réodwyn counted on her fingers. "Oh... I guess I don't have very many, do I?" She shook her head. "I keep thinking I have more clothes, but I don't."

There was a low bellow. It came from a large dog, one of two, that excitedly danced around a man emerging from the inner hallways. The man shushed the dog, only to receive another bellow in answer. The man pinched the bridge of his nose and steadied himself. The two women gave each other a knowing glance. The Prince was rough from the night before. Éowyn beckoned him over and called for another pot of tea. Théodred slumped into a seat beside Éowyn. The two dogs poked their long scruffy noses over his shoulders and panted in his ears.

"Egar, Rued, down!" he moaned, pushing them away. They whined and obeyed. He took a bun in hand and munched. The dogs of course stared at him with dopey eyes, drooling.

* * *

The wind was quiet. Strong, but quiet. There was whistling in the tall grasses, and singing of a single lark that had arrived early for spring. Éomer tried to locate the lark. The chirping seemed to be coming from beyond a garden fence, where the long grass began. The village near Entwash, Wickburn was the name he had remembered at last, was bustling with new vigor. The ice had melted from the earth, and so many were at work digging graves at last for those who had fallen on that dreadful night passed weeks before. The townspeople greeted the Éored warmly, preparing food for them despite the winter stores nearing depletion. Spring had come, they reasoned, and food would soon be growing in the fields and game returning from the southern plains.

A young boy approached the Marshal, who sat on a lone bench near the new building. It was Earthang, the boy who had led them to the spring. He stood there, watching the man carve into a small block of wood. The knife was small but sharp, and Éomer took his time whittling away at the wood. The block became thinner, and ovular. Éomer stopped to brush off the dust from his trousers and then continued carving. He traced out the form of two horse heads caressing a central flower, a symbelmune. Below them, was a band of interwoven vines. Leisurely he carved into it, creating a low relief. This was not done quickly, as over a few minutes. At last, the boy spoke.

"Will it be a comb?"

"Yes," replied the Marshal.

"I think it will be a nice comb."

"I hope so," the Marshal said. He thumbed away the sawdust, revealing his little piece of art. He looked up at the boy. "Your stance has a patience you did not possess the first we met."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And your family," Éomer said, remembering the dark news that Réodwyn had shared with him, "Are they fairing well?"

"Yes, my Lord," the boy said, but a small quiver came to his voice.

"But you are not," Éomer surmised. The boy did not answer. Éomer decided to change the subject to something he knew would lift the boy's spirits. "The young maiden we found at Ent Spring has been made Ward to the King." The boy's eyes brightened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Éomer's name was called. Éomer stood and patted the boy's shoulder. His break was a bit too long, he admitted. It was time to return to helping the others.


	15. Preventing Future Ills

Finally have another chapter. Sorry guys. Life has been pretty crazy. I fully intend on getting back into writing this fanfiction. Now that the Hobbit is out on DVD, i'm sure it will give me lots of inspiration.

A new character makes an introduction, even though you met him in Chapter 1. His name is Atherol, which means "Dweller at the Spring Farm"

- In Amber Clad

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**Chapter 14:  
**  
"My Lord Éomer, I plead you. Reconsider."

The green eyed man had returned. Éomer had spoken with him three days prior and thought he had reasoned him into submission. Éomer answered, "There is nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose." As he said those words, he could not help but remember Réodwyn standing above the body of her assailant.

"Let me ride by your side, my Lord. Set me loose upon the enemy!"

Éomer stopped walking and corrected him, "You would be a danger to my _men_."

The man stopped beside him. His face fell. "You think I would endanger them?" the green eyed man asked, as he sifted through the accusation for the truth. "The Éored fight for those who cannot fight for themselves, fight to protect all in these lands. You think me as reckless as to fight not for these things?" The look on Éomer's face confirmed his question. "You do…" The man bowed his head, knowing the reason why. It was he whose wife had been slain by the Toothen Orc. Éomer could still remember their return in the dark of night, and the green eyed man walked into the village stricken with a ghostly gaze and dripping red from the hands that could not save the unborn child. The man was called Atherol. "I have not lost all hope or heart. I have those I would fight for and fear to lose. My mother, she is old but her health is firm. My sister has wedded and lives in the village to the south. She has three children."

Clearly, this meant more to the man than what was driven by loss and emotion. Éomer nodded, "I am sorry to tell you that there is more needed than a willing heart, my friend."

"What more is needed? Tell me and I shall tell you if I have it," Atherol said, the motivation sparking in his eyes.

Éomer provided a list of requirements, including a horse, weapons and armor, but also physical ability and skills. To Éomer's surprise, the only item the man was missing was a spear. His next set of questions ended with one that made Atherol hesitate. "Are you able to follow orders, even if they lead to your death?"

The man did not square his shoulders or let them fall after a moment of thought. He looked Éomer in the eye and said, "I am… not ready to join my wife just yet."

"Good," Éomer said. It was not the response Atherol was expecting. He continued, "Then you are not a danger to yourself either. Though, I cannot allow you to join my Éored, which is fully manned," the man began to protest, but Éomer held up his hand, and hushed him. He surveyed around him, checking for eavesdroppers around the stoned corners. They were alone, and Éomer said to him in a low voice, "But I know of one that could use you. You know of Erkenbrand, the man who avenged your wife?"

"Yes, and for that I am indebted to him," the man said. He had a suspicion of where Éomer was leading this suggestion and wanted to hear more.

"You can repay him in full. You have until the summer harvest to ready your horse. You may be ready for battle, but your horse could kill you as easily as an orc if it is not desensitized properly to the sounds of battle. Sharpen your blade and strengthen your arm. When these things are done, you will find Erkenbrand in Aldburg. There, he will instruct you further." This agreement was sealed with a strong shake. Éomer left him. Atherol watched the Lord descend the stairs, grateful and contemplating the coming months.

* * *

There was a great unrest in the hall of gold. The servants either rushed about or stood aside in nervous silence, glancing at each other for signs of news. The fire was stoked by a few of these servants, though the flames withered and little was left other than embers. Stomachs went unfed in the preoccupation of the household. This became more evident when one of the ladies of the house came to the fire with crossed arms and her own stomach growled beside them.

"What's… going on?" asked Réodwyn.

The one that stoked the fire answered, "The King is ill."

"He's sick? With what? He seemed perfectly healthy yesterday."

The servant shrugged, "We don't know. We were to prepare for a meeting of Lords, but now are at a loss of what to do. Without the King, the meeting was postponed and none of our superiors have given us new tasks."

"… I have a task for you," the Lady smirked.

"My Lady?"

The red haired maiden knelt down and whispered, "Help me get us some food. I can hear all your stomachs growling as loud as mine." The servants stifled some giggles, if only to not disturb the quiet of the hall, and two of them left for the kitchens. The room was smaller than Réodwyn expected. The servant showed her around the room, but needed to explain very little; the lady seemed familiar with the workings of a kitchen. After some looking around, she paused here and there. Réodwyn looked at the knives, the meat set out on the cutting boards near the fresh vegetables. Her face contorted with disgust and then a spark of realization. She rushed out of the room without dismissal. The servants were left curious.

Réodwyn pushed her way through the corridors towards an area she did not know so well. The had never been to the King's chambers before, even to visit. The way the number of worried faces increased she knew it was close. Finally she came to a door not unlike the others.

"Éowyn!" Réodwyn called. She saw her friend talking with the housemaid, Haswig. Before Eowyn responded, she asked, "Has anyone else gotten sick?"

"No, not to my knowledge," Eowyn replied, confused.

Haswig chirped in, "Yes, in matter of fact, some have. The cook, Master Baton, and one of the Kings Guard is not here today. Hama said the poor lout must have drunk too much, he spit up what was left of it ascending the steps outside. Not surprising, considering all the free food and drink he ate."

"He threw up? Is the King throwing up too? Does he have the chills? Sunken eyes? Dizziness?"

"Why, yes, but," Haswig stuttered, "What does that have to do with all the drinking?"

Réodwyn nodded and a slight, victorious smirk spread on her cheek. "I think I know what's wrong with the King.

* * *

"What do you mean, 'someone has poisoned the King?'" Háma demanded, his outrage seeping through his knightly demeanor at the king's bedside. "I'll have his head!"

There were few inside the royal bed chamber, including the two maidens. The King had been propped up on many pillows. His hand held cool towel across his forehead, and he seemed nearly too ill to speak. At his other side, Gríma sat on a chair, fidgeting with the end of his knitted black sleeve. Théodred had already come and gone. With the King's suddenly rendered bedridden it had been Théodred who sent the other Lords home before the meeting could begin.

"She said 'food poisoning,' not that someone was purposely poisoning him," Éowyn clarified.

Théoden wanted answers, however. "What is the difference? All the same I am ill and there is someone at fault for it, you say."

Gríma calmed the King, "My Lord, be still and rest. Listen to her suspicions before agreeing with her conclusion." The King waved his hand with a sigh. Wormtongue seemed pleased and looked to the young woman who would now speak.

Réodwyn spoke quietly, but was very stern, "The state of your kitchen was very clean, but even a clean kitchen can't stop dirty habits of badly trained chefs. Either the chef who was cooking last night completely ignored the health risks or didn't know he was doing something wrong."

"Master Baton was the cook last night, and he is at home in bed as well," Háma stated. "He loves food, he loves serving his food to you, my Lord." With certainty he said, "I don't think it was his intention to make you ill."

Réodwyn elaborated. "Food poisoning is a result of one kind of food contaminating another, and it's an easy mistake to make. The best example of this is say, someone is preparing a chicken to be roasted. They cut the chicken with a knife on a cutting board and then go and cook the chicken. Then they use the same knife and cutting board to chop up some vegetables to serve on the side, like a salad. You have to wash cookware before reusing them. You can't mix uncooked and ready-to-eat foods. The food gets contaminated. I saw blood on the cutting board, probably from the pork roast last night, and there were chopped vegetables next to it." She emphasized, "_Disgusting_."

"Do you know a cure for this?" Háma asked, hopeful and impressed with her knowledge.

She shook her head, "Sorry. Back home we had medicines that helped… I don't suppose you have a plant like a jingur root?" she looked to Éowyn, but Éowyn shook her head. "The only thing I can suggest is trying to eat soup and crackers and keep it down until you get better. That, and … maybe I can talk with your cooks?"

"Thank you, Réodwyn," Théoden said tiredly. "That would be most appreciated. Hama, could you see to it?" He pressed the cool cloth to his cheeks and closed his eyes.

"Of course, my Lord," he said with a bow.

"I shall accompany you," spoke Gríma, rising from his chair. The hairs on Éowyn's back stood on end as he approached them. "I am relieved to hear that prevention of the King's state can be done by means of providing knowledge," he said, now standing directly in front of Réodwyn, "… knowledge I should also like to acquire." Réodwyn said nothing. She just looked back at his cold blue eyes, unblinking.

Háma escorted the red maiden and the councilor out and called the servants to gather the chefs.

Although Réodwyn was only asked to speak with them about the situation, she took the responsibility much more seriously. She described their lack of knowledge on proper food safety as 'unforgivable'. Éowyn stopped in once, when Grima was not present, and witnessed a new side to Réodwyn. Although she was still her kind and quiet self, her instruction was strict. Not only did she speak with the cooks, she took charge of them for three days, instructing them, ironing out old habbits. The cooks were fast learners. The new rules were simple; wash your hands, separate cooked and uncooked foods and throw out food that was too old, wash dishes before re-use. She also forbid that in the future, anyone who was ill was not to work in the kitchens. When Éowyn inquired later about this experience Réodwyn denied being angry at all.

"Angry? Why would I be angry?" she asked with genuine surprise.

"You were so strict with them," Éowyn remembered, "I did not know you could be so serious."

Réodwyn laughed, "My dear girl, if there is one thing I'm serious about, it's _food_. Besides. We had some fun too. And they taught me how to make these." The two maidens were eating sweet rolls, topped with strawberries. Their feet dangled off the side of the balcony.

"You made this?" she asked in between bites, delicately wiping frosting off her lip and then sucked it off her thumb.

She gave a big grin in response, "Hey, how is the King?"

"Réodwyn, you can call him Théoden. He doesn't mind."

"I know... I just keep forgetting," Réodwyn frowned.

Éowyn smiled, "He's better. Didn't you know he went riding today?"

"What? I thought he was still in bed. No wonder I didn't seem him." She finished off her sweet roll and stood up. "So! Now that you're free for the day… what do you want to do?"

Éowyn looked up at her friend. A hint of mischief glinted in her eyes.

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A/N: err... Reviews? That would be nice. There's less than 1 review for each chapter. It'd be nice to have 1 more review before a write the next chapter. Just sayin'.


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